


Your Life Is Not Your Own

by StuffYouWatedToSayButNeverDid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sex, Unilock, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-02-02 07:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuffYouWatedToSayButNeverDid/pseuds/StuffYouWatedToSayButNeverDid
Summary: Sherlock searches for his purpose in Uni as he meets a student that uses him and leaves him in a void. As his life falls apart, he turns to any substance that will take him away from reality until he reaches the breaking point where he meets a med student that will change his life forever. Ultimately Johnlock. Drug/Substance abuse. Lots of angst. Will be a long fic in which I plan to update once a week.





	1. Preface

Your Life Is Not Your Own

Preface:

  
It wasn’t infatuation. Perhaps intrigue that piqued Sherlock’s interest. It was rare that a person could hold his attention for more than a few moments but Victor was something else entirely. It may have been the mystery accompanied by Sherlock’s foolish innocence that drew him to Victor or his inability to read him. While most were an open book at one glance, Victor was a puzzle to unravel and dissect.

  
University, while giving Sherlock access towards a more advanced education, provided little challenge. The majority of his time was spent in the labs in the science wing or in the library where he secreted to a table in the far corner surrounded by shelves of outdated text books. When he did attend class, his professors begrudgingly put up with his advanced knowledge that far exceeded their own. But that was a particular trait of Sherlock’s that drew Victor to him.

  
Victor was a new student, having transferred from university in Paris where his family had moved shortly after he finished primary school. He found Sherlock after class on the far side of the courtyard, about to light his second cigarette as he prepared to spend the night in the labs. Sherlock knew Victor was approaching but he kept his back to him, hoping it would deter him enough to leave.

  
“Mind if I have one?” His voice was tinged with the slightest Parisian accent. Reluctantly, Sherlock turned to face him, nearly stepping back at his proximity. His eyes were the most preposterous shade of arctic blue. Preposterous? What possessed him to think that?

  
Sherlock handed him one and passed over the lighter and there was something…elegant about the way he lit it that Sherlock could not take his eyes off of Victor’s hands. After he breathed in the first few drags, Victor lifted the lighter to light the cigarette that still hung on Sherlock’s lips that he had forgotten about upon Victor’s presence. He smiled as Sherlock followed along with the motions, who’s mind seemed to be numb, something he had rarely ever experienced. Sherlock took a minute just breathing in the smoke, trying to think of something to say.

  
“It’s Sherlock, right?”

  
“Yes.” At least he could speak now.

  
“I’m Victor. Victor Trevor. Just moved here from Paris. Well-back here, I mean. I’m rubbish at organic chemistry and I was wondering if you’d be able to help me. That exam coming up…well, I need to get good marks.”

  
“I don’t tutor.”

  
“Would you make an exception? Look, I’ll pay you.” It was tempting. Mycroft had limited his funds when he found out that Sherlock had spent a large sum of his money on lab equipment for his personal use which left him limited for his nicotine habit. Sherlock mulled it over, trying to read Victor but came up with very little besides the very obvious, that he had grown up in a lifestyle not much different from his own. Victor’s father, a diplomat that often left him on his own as his mother most undoubtably ran her own profitable business in fashion that took her to Paris regularly. Sherlock mulled it over for only a moment before consenting.

  
“Very well. Tomorrow. I will meet you here, same time.”

  
“Yeah? You’re a lifesaver. See you later!” He flashed another grin that momentarily paralysed Sherlock. He sighed as Victor walked away, finishing up his cigarette and heading to the labs. It wasn’t until the first few students walked in at eight in the morning that Sherlock realised he had been there all night. He grabbed his coat and headed to the door as Molly Hooper walked through and smiled up at him. She was…nice but clearly held infatuation towards Sherlock which he tried to avoid at all costs.

  
“Morning!” She was far too chipper. Always. “Just getting in?”

  
“Leaving.” Her face fell but Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to care one way or the other. He hadn’t slept in nearly 72 hours and couldn’t seem to remember the last time he ate. Was it Monday? Perhaps?

  
“You’ve been here all night?” She frowned, “You should get some sleep.” Sherlock bit his lip, trying not to snap at her very obvious statement.

  
“I was intending to do so. If you’ll excuse me.” He quickly stepped around her and hurried down the corridor without another word. This was the exact reason he spent most of his nights in the lab. Everyone was a distraction and a nuisance.

  
Sherlock made his way back to his hall and climbed into bed without changing his clothes. It was easy to fall asleep but he was rudely interrupted as his mobile went off. A call. Mycroft. He groaned and lifted the mobile to his ear.

  
“What?” He snapped.

  
“Good morning to you as well.”

  
“Sod off, Mycroft. What do you want?”

  
“Can I not call to see how my only brother is?”

  
“No. You don’t breathe without an ulterior motive.” Sherlock smirked slightly as he heard Mycroft’s sigh on the other end.

  
“Mummy has insisted that we spend the holidays together at the family home.” Sherlock groaned in which Mycroft agreed.

  
“What brought this on? It’s been years since we’ve done a family holiday.”

  
“That is what I am calling about, Sherlock.” Mycroft paused which made Sherlock sit up, his heart beating a bit faster. “Mummy is sick…Breast Cancer I’m afraid.”

  
“When…When was she diagnosed?” Sherlock’s chest constricted, they had never been terribly close but she was still his Mum.

  
“Two months ago-“

  
“Two months? And you’re telling me now?”

  
“Sherlock, I had only just found out myself. As you know, she and Father were abroad and only just flew back in yesterday.”

  
“I want to see her file.”

  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed and hesitated before assenting. “Very well. You will receive it shortly. I will let you know of her progress. In the meantime, take care of yourself, brother mine.” Mycroft hung up and Sherlock let the phone fall to the mattress. He sat for a moment before the overwhelming urge to smoke struck him again. Forget sleeping, he could easily go another day without it.

  
He grabbed his coat and cigarettes before making his way to his spot in the courtyard. Sherlock all but forgot about his plan to tutor Victor, burning through an entire pack of cigarettes as he sat there. He reached for another, only to find the pack empty. He growled and threw the box only to see it picked up a few seconds later by Victor.

  
“You really should throw these in a bin.” Victor walked up to him and saw the various burnt out cigarettes on the ground by him. “Fuck, did you go through the whole pack today?” Sherlock shrugged and pulled his coat tighter around his thin frame.

  
“So what if I did?”

  
“You look like you need a drink.”

  
“I don’t drink.”

  
“Why not?” Victor laughed unbelieving.

  
“It slows down my thought process.”

  
“Yeah? Well, I think it would do you some good right now, mate.” Victor stood and held out his hand to Sherlock, “C’mon then. I know a good pub not far form here.” Sherlock hesitated, looking at Victors hand before taking it and standing. Their hands lingered a bit too long together and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a slight flush on his cheeks. He quickly shoved his hands in his pockets and they made their way to the pub in silence. A surprisingly comfortable silence.

  
The pub was small but relatively empty for an early Thursday afternoon. Sherlock sat in a booth in the back as Victor offered to get drinks. Sherlock looked around, studying the bartender and the few patrons that lingered at the bar but his attention was mostly caught by Victor himself. He was leaning on the bar, his backside perfectly sculpted in his tight jeans which made Sherlock’s throat go a bit dry. It was alarming to find anyone sexually appealing seeing as he had never felt any sort of attraction to another person, male or female. But he couldn’t deny that Victor lit some seemingly sexually repressed feelings in Sherlock which only lead to his confusion.

  
Victor placed two drinks down on the table and sat opposite Sherlock. “What is it?” Sherlock frowned at the glass.

  
“Whisky.” Victor lifted his glass and took a sip. Sherlock did the same but coughed as it burned his throat which made Victor laugh.

  
“Fuck,” Sherlock shuddered.

  
“Keep drinking, you’ll get used to it.” Sherlock doubted that but took another tentative sip, it still burned but it began to grow easier, sip by sip and left a pleasant warmth in his stomach. Victor ordered some chips and a second drink before Sherlock had even made it through half of the glass.

  
“You don’t need help with chemistry.” Sherlock realised as Victor made one-sided small talk that Sherlock had barely been listening to.

  
“No,” Victor admitted with a grin.

  
“Then why the pretence?” Victor shrugged.

  
“I find you interesting. I wanted to get to know you.”

  
“I see.” Sherlock frowned a bit.

  
“Not in some scientific observation way. Though you are brilliantly fascinating. I wanted to get to _know_ you.”

  
“You said that already.”

  
“Christ,” Victor laughed, “You have no idea what I’m implying do you?” Sherlock responded with a blank look. “Sherlock…” He slid a hand across the table and placed in on top on Sherlock’s own which froze under his touch. “Let me put this in blatant terms. I fancy you and I think you fancy me too. Am I right?” Sherlock hesitated but nodded once, his hand still frozen under Victors. “Good.” Victor grinned which made Sherlock’s heart hammer in his chest. He quickly downed his drink as their hands separated. He was lost in thought, barely conscious of the second and third drink Victor put in his hands. By the time Victor suggested they go, Sherlock had no clue of his inhibition until he stood and nearly fell to the floor. Victor laughed and caught him, snaking his arm around Sherlocks waist and guiding him out of the pub.

  
“ ‘m fine…” Sherlock mumbled, trying to walk steadily on his own but only failed to lean back into Victor’s side.

  
“You’re pissed. We’ll work on your tolerance.”

  
“Hmph.” They passed by a bench as they approached the courtyard and Sherlock sank down on to it, clutching at his head. Victor sat down next to him and pulled him closer, lifting up Sherlock’s chin so he could look at him.

  
“Even in this state you’re still bloody gorgeous.” Sherlock could hardly comprehend what Victor was saying before he felt lips upon his own. His inexperience left him unable to react or reciprocate but Victor (unlike Sherlock) was a good tutor. He slowly showed Sherlock how to move his lips and part them and then how to use his tongue to elicit groans of ecstasy and desire.

 

***

  
Sherlock didn’t remember getting back to bed that evening but he was rudely awoken by the sun and a splitting headache. He groaned and reached for the paracetamol at his bedside. It was a few moments before he began to recall the reason for his pain and he couldn’t help the smile that formed. He touched his lips, remembering Victor’s own. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt an overwhelming need to see another person again. Victor had crept into his mind and he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.


	2. Life. Chemistry. Love.

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes knew he was far more clever than most. Already he was 19 and in his last year of his undergraduate at Uni. He had been able to leave secondary school early and start his education with help from his teachers who grew tired of his insistent corrections during their classes. The professors were not all much different and Sherlock was allowed to move along in Uni, very quickly. He craved challenge and intrigue which quickly led him to focus on chemistry. There was so much that science had not yet discovered and Sherlock was up to the challenge.

  
The only time he left Uni was during the summer holidays where he was forced to go back home or to stay with Mycroft in London, which he preferred despite Mycroft’s pestering. Most of his time in London, Sherlock spent exploring the city and mapping it out in his mind, street by street. He felt at home there and looked forward to making it a permeant location to live in after he finished his degree.

  
Besides his summers in London , Sherlock stayed in Cambridge, immersed in the labs and expanding his knowledge. This had always been his focus and his constant routine changed so suddenly upon the entrance of Victor into his life that it completely altered him. While Sherlock had never been a sensitive person, generally uncaring of others feelings, he was not cold by any means. He had the ability to care for others but he had never found someone to care about. After that first evening with Victor, Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

  
His mobile pinged as he sat on his bed, lost in a book. It had been a few months now that he had known Victor and they continued to grow closer. He fell hard and fast but he tried not to show it as much as he could. Victor seemed to reciprocate his feelings which only made Sherlock fall even more. He picked up his phone. A text from Victor.

  
_Any plans tonight? -Victor_

 

_No. I’m assuming I do now, however. -Sherlock_

 

_I’ll pick you up at 8, darling. -Victor_

 

Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that crept to his lips, _darling_. He had never been one for terms of endearment but having it come from Victor…that was acceptable.

  
He spent the rest of his day in the labs and returned in time to shower and dress. Victor had come over some nights ago and decided immediately that they must go shopping. He took Sherlock out and bought him new clothes that he claimed Sherlock would look _sexy_ in. He slipped on skin tight black jeans, a black shirt that clung to his subtle yet defined muscles and a leather jacket. He felt ridiculous when he was alone but the way Victor would look at him, it was worth it.

  
There was a knock on the door and Sherlock quickly flung it open. He grinned, seeing Victor leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He immediately looked Sherlock up and down suggestively and shutting the door behind him. Sherlock couldn’t help himself and rushed forward, taking Victor’s face in his hands and snogging him desperately. It grew heated quickly, Sherlock reaching for the hem of Victor’s shirt when he felt Victor’s hands around his wrists.

  
“Mm, as much as I would _love_ to let this continue…we have somewhere to be.” He grinned and kissed Sherlock once more before releasing him. Sherlock took a moment to gather his senses, pushing down the urge to grab Victor and push him against the door.

  
“Right…” Sherlock fixed his clothes and his hair before they left his room. “Where are we going?”

  
“Now where’s the fun in telling?” Victor smirked. They walked out to the courtyard, hand in hand as Sherlock tried to figure out where he was being taken. They walked for some time and ended up walking down a rural street. A commotion of sound began to grow as they walked on and came upon a house where music was blasting from inside. It was clearly full of people and Sherlock hesitated a bit.

  
“We’re going…to a party?” He frowned.

  
“Yeah, my mate Sebastian. Aw, don’t look like that. It’ll be fun.” He stopped and lifted Sherlock’s chin. “Trust me.” He leaned in, pressing his lips lightly to Sherlock’s.

  
“I do…” He whispered as their lips parted and Victor began to pull him into the house. Right away, Sherlock felt overwhelmed. There had to have been dozens in each room, each with a drink in their hands. He could smell cigarettes and marijuana as Victor led him further in, pushing past sweaty bodies that were all but having sex as they danced. He pressed as close to Victor as he could, feeling entirely uncomfortable. Victor handed him a drink as well as his own before leading him to a sofa where a man sat with two women on either side.  
“Seb!” Victor grinned and they shook hands briefly.

  
“Glad you could make it!” Sebastian grinned and looked to Sherlock who stood a bit behind Victor, clutching his hand.

  
“This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Sebastian Moran. We’ve been mates since…what? Primary school?” Sebastian nodded and stood up, holding out his hand to Sherlock.  
“Nice to meet you, Sherlock.” He smirked and Sherlock hesitantly shook the man’s hand with the one that he wasn’t clutching to Victor’s for dear life. Sebastian told the woman to leave and made room for Sherlock and Victor to sit. Sebastian and Victor began to talk, leaving Sherlock to observe everyone around him. He was starting to get a headache and wanted to go back to his room but this was what Victor wanted…The only way he could somewhat tolerate being there was the buzz that the alcohol started to give him. Victor made sure he was never out of a drink and he slowly began to relax. They had made it outside to the yard in the back where there were still, dozens of people. Victor had dragged Sherlock out to get some air.

  
“I’m fine!” Sherlock smirked and held on to Victor’s coat lapels. “We should dance…” He tried to drag Victor back inside but Victor held him still.

  
“In a bit. Why don’t you have a smoke? I need to use the loo.” Sherlock pouted but sat down on one of the yard chairs and pulled out a cigarette that Victor helped him light. “Be back in a minute.” Victor walked off and Sherlock leaned against the chair, the ground was spinning. He felt nauseous and tried to breathe it away.

  
Eventually Victor came back and kneeled in front of Sherlock. “You alright?”

  
“Mm, now I am.” He smirked tiredly and placed his hands on top of Victor’s which were on his thighs. He yawned and leaned his head back again.

  
“No, you’re not.” Victor pulled him to his feet. “It’s hardly eleven. I know what’ll perk you up.” Sherlock was pulled back into the house and led up the stairs. They passed a few doors and to the end of the hall where Victor knocked twice in quick succession and then a single knock a few seconds later. Sherlock leaned against him, his eyes drooping. The fluorescent light made him squint as the door opened and they were quickly pulled in. Sebastian sat on the edge of the bathtub with two other individuals that Sherlock couldn’t recall seeing before. He watched with wide eyes as Sebastian leaned down with his nose along the lip of the sink and snorted up a fine white line of powder. Sherlock wasn’t all that innocent not to know what it was immediately. He looked at Victor with wide eyes about to protest when Victor caressed his cheek.

  
“It’s fine, love.” _Love?_ A warmth spread through Sherlock and he knew right then, he would of done whatever Victor wanted him to. “Have you ever tried this before?” Sherlock shook his head, still enamoured by Victor’s new name for him. “That’s alright. I’ll show you. You’ll love it.” Sherlock watched as a new line was set up for Victor and he did the line as if it were a regular occurrence for him. He smirked as the coke hit his bloodstream and he let out a cry of ecstasy. “Shit! That’s bloody good!”

  
Sebastian set up a new line for Sherlock who’s head was already swimming from the alcohol but with Victor’s encouragement and his own insatiable curiosity, he knelt down by the sink. With Sebastian’s instructions, Sherlock clumsily took the line, nearly falling backwards as it hit him within seconds. He had never felt anything like it, a warmth spread through his body and his heart began to race. He looked around, eventually focusing on Victor who kneeled beside him. “Sherlock? How d’you feel?”

  
Sherlock looked at him with a sense of wonder and fascination before reaching for him and moving into his arms. His whole body felt like it was sinking into Victors. Their souls intertwining and their bodies slipping away. It was beautiful and Sherlock had never felt so free and relaxed. Everything made sense in this moment. Life. Chemistry. _Victor._

  
Sherlock didn’t remember leaving the house or walking in the night’s chill back to uni. He didn’t remember going back to Victor’s room and pulling off his clothes as they made their way to the bed. He didn’t remember as Victor took him for the first time that night and how _alive_ he felt in that moment.

  
Sherlock didn’t remember any of this except for the lingering high as he woke up the next morning in Victor’s bed, alone. He tried to put the pieces together but failed miserably as his mind tried to catch up with his body. He clumsily pulled on his clothes and made his way back to his room, his entire body aching. He collapsed into his bed, groaning as he simultaneously felt nauseous and achy. His mobile pinged and he picked it up, squinting at the screen with one eye.

 

_Thanks for coming out with me last night. Had a lot of fun. When can I see you again, love? -Victor_

 

Sherlock’s heart beat quickly as he re-read the last word, over and over before sending out his reply.

  
  
_Tonight. -Sherlock_


	3. Cold Words

Chapter 2

  
It happened quick and simultaneously slow. Victor knew how to play Sherlock. He knew what names to use, urging him and making decisions for him. Sherlock was lost but he didn’t seem to care. All he needed was Victor and the fine, white powder that he had come to love. There were numerous parties, other substances that Victor convinced Sherlock to try but nothing was quite the same as the bliss that the cocaine left in Sherlock’s mind. Quiet.

  
Three wonderful months of Victor, _sex_ , cocaine and alcohol. As the semester came to an end, Sherlock realised he hadn’t been to class in over a week. He laughed suddenly, curled up with Victor on his bed, smoking a cigarette.

  
“What’s funny?” Victor mumbled, pulling Sherlock closer and kissing his neck, their bodies slick with sweat.

  
“Don’t remember last time I was in class.” He laughed again, expecting Victor to join him but he didn’t. Sherlock rolled over and looked at his boyfriend who was frowning at him.

“What?”

  
“Why weren’t you in class?”

  
“Mm, didn’t want to.”

  
“Sherlock…you do realise that you have to pass your courses in order to stay here?”

  
“ ’S fine…Mycroft will give a little _donation_ and I’ll still be here.”

  
“My parents could do the same thing but you don’t see me fucking off, do you?”

  
“What?” Sherlock sat up, glaring. “You’re the one dragging me to all of these stupid parties! I didn’t even want to go!”

  
“You’re the one that’s suggest the past four! I was fine going to dinner or the cinemas and the first thing you did was get high!”

  
“So, what! You’re the one that had me do it the first time and countless other times after that!”

  
“I’m not fucking addicted, like you!”

  
“I’m not-“ Sherlock got up and started pulling on his clothes, Victor groaning.

  
“Sherlock, come back to bed. I didn’t mean to. Please _love_ …”

  
“Fuck off!” Sherlock barely had his trousers on before he swung open the door, angrily storming off to his room. His phone pinged multiple times but he turned it off, not wanting to talk to Victor. He wasn’t addicted! It helped him _think_ and Victor had no idea! He growled in frustration, pacing his room like a caged animal. He glanced at the floor under his bed with each passing. Knowing that there was a small box with the white powder inside that was tempting him. He didn’t want to think about Victor or school or how he would have to spend an eternity in hell that was his family home in less than a fortnight.

  
With a sigh, he knelt down on the floor and pulled out the box. He knew how to do it easily now, lining up the power and making sure it was the perfect amount…he took it in, sighing in relief and leaning against the bed frame on his floor. He sat there for some time in silence, his mind and body quieting but the feeling was fleeting. Victor popped into his mind and that would certainly not do. Not when they were having a row that Sherlock felt was completely Victor’s fault. Without hesitation, he set up the last amount that was left in the small bag. Only this time, his heart began to race soon after he had returned to the floor. His chest felt tight as if he couldn’t breathe, taking in dragging breaths as he reached for his phone, turning it on as his fingers stumbled. He pressed on Victor’s name who answered on the second ring.

  
“Sherlock I’m sorry, I-“

  
“C-Can’t…breathe…”

  
“Sherlock! Sherlock, where are you?”

  
“R-Room…”

  
“I’ll be right there!"

 

Sherlock sunk to the floor, feeling like his entire body was being pulled into the hardwood, his vision blurring. Minutes later, his door swung open, Victor kneeling beside him.  
“Shit…Sherlock? What did you-“ He paused as he saw the set up on Sherlock’s bed. “Fucking hell, how much did you take? Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”  
Victor’s voice began to fade as darkness closed in on him, bliss. Finally.

***

When Sherlock began to rouse, his limbs felt like lead. Everything ached and his head felt like hell. Slowly, he opened one eye, bright florescent light blurring his vision. It took a few minutes but he finally got his eyes open, surveying his surroundings.

  
“You’re in Brookfields Hospital.” Sherlock nearly groaned and closed his eyes again at hearing Mycroft’s voice. “You were taken in to A&E for an overdose. Care to explain?” He was beyond angry, Sherlock could hear how he clenched his jaw, trying to remain calm. Sherlock didn’t reply. “No? You see, _brother dear_ , according to your report, you were on cocaine. Now, I told them this could not possibly be true because while my brother is reckless at times, he could never be so blatantly _idiotic!_ ”

  
Sherlock sighed, his eyes still feeling heavy, “Fuck off-“

  
“What were you thinking! You could have been expelled, Sherlock! If Mummy found out…is that what this is about? Lashing out like a child because she’s ill? Do you really want to throw away everything for this disgusting habit-“

  
“FUCK OFF MYCROFT!” He glared as Mycroft stilled, straightening his back.

  
“You listen to me, Sherlock. If this _ever_ happens again, I will not hesitate to bring you to rehab. Do you understand me?” Sherlock turned his head to the side, not looking at his brother. “I said, do you understand!” Mycroft rarely lost his patience but he was weakened by sentiment.

  
“Get. Out.” Sherlock gave Mycroft the coldest look he could muster as his brother made his way to the door.

  
“Heed my words, brother dear. Make sure this does not happen again. I will see you next Friday.” He left and Sherlock groaned, pushing his face into a pillow before reaching out for his phone. He had one new text.

 

**_Had to take an exam. Text me when you wake up. -Victor_ **

 

Sherlock frowned at the cold words. His heart began to ache, knowing that Victor was still angry at him and Sherlock couldn’t help but fear that he had caused irreparable damage. He felt like he had been run over but slowly, he dressed and pulled out the IV from, his arm. He shakily went to nurses desk and demanded to be released. They tried to get him to stay but he adamantly refused, hailing a cab as he stepped outside. It was a slow walk back to his room, his bed a welcome sight. He pulled off all of his clothes except for his pants and crawled into the familiar sheets. He hadn’t texted Victor back, wanting silence to recover. Darkness began to consume him once again, exhaustion pulling him into sleep’s embrace. The last thought he had was where he could get his next hit from when he finally woke up again.


	4. Happy Christmas Sherlock

Chapter 3

It was cold, far too cold as Sherlock sat in the back of a black car that was taking him home. He wrapped his coat up tighter and closed his eyes only for a brief moment. He was about to face a week with his family…

He slipped his hand into the pocket and felt the bag that sat inside. He ran his fingers over the plastic, feeling the powder within. He had a hit right before he left but it was comforting to feel it there, knowing he would have to hide it in the week to come. Mycroft was far too observant but Sherlock had become an expert in pretending he was sober.

An hour later, they pulled up in front of the house that sent dread through his chest. He sighed and got out, ignoring every maid that welcomed him. He tried, desperately, to head for his room before he would have to speak to his parents or Mycroft but luck wasn’t on his side. He cursed to himself as Mycroft called from behind. Sherlock sighed and turned to see his brother in his usual posh suit and a calculating look in his eyes. He was scrutinising Sherlock, trying to see what Sherlock desperately hopped he wouldn’t. “Come and say hello to Mummy and Father.” Sherlock sighed and followed Mycroft into the sitting room where his father sat next to his mother who looked far too pale. He could see the cancer start to eat away at her and he tried to repress the pang in his heart.

“Sherlock dear…” His mother smiled and reached out her hand. He took it and sat beside her, still pulling his jacket close to his thin frame. “Look at you…you’re so thin.”

“How are you, Mummy?” He frowned as he noticed the way she shook with any amount of effort. She was far worse than he realised.

“I’m fine, dear. Say hello to your father.” Sherlock repressed a sigh and turned slightly to face his father.

“Sherlock.”

“Father.”

“Tea?” Mycroft cut in, reaching out to the table before them.

“Actually, I would like a shower. But _do_ let me know when supper is served, brother.” Sherlock stood and nodded at his mother and father before making his way up to his old room, much to his family’s disdain. He did shower, that much was true but he pulled on fresh clothes before making his way to the balcony outside of his room to scale the wall down to the ground. He had done it countless times as a boy, preferring the night time and solitude to think. He always felt as though he would suffocate in that house, surrounded by old traditions and outdated expectations.

It was brisk and the night was soon approaching. Sherlock took the familiar path through the garden and beyond, to the trees outlining the yard. It wasn’t until he reached his favourite spot, far beyond the visibility of the house, that he pulled out the small box from within his coat. He set up a line on the small tray that sat inside, improvised using a lighter to liquidate the powder before taking out the needle within and filling it with the now clear substance. He cleaned the tray and put the small bag into the box before he pulled out the tourniquet and tying it tightly.

He paused for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest. He had seen this process done before, by others. He had tried it himself and enjoyed the feeling of his blood mixing with the benzoylmethylecgonine. It was far quicker than snorting and seemingly painless. But this was his first time doing it alone.

_I’m a fucking chemist. You did it right before. Just, DO IT._

He plunged in the needle before he had a second thought and let out the breath he had been holding. The second he released it all, he quickly pulled off the tourniquet and collapsed against the tree he sat by. He let out a shuddered sigh as he felt the drug course through his veins and give his body a warm buzz. He felt fantastic.

It took a few minutes for him to get his bearings before he settled everything back into the box and dug out a small hole by the tree, placing the box inside. He wouldn’t risk Mycroft or one of the maids coming across it and he refused to go to rehab.

The walk back was refreshing and he suddenly felt a burst of energy. He walked through the backdoor, not caring if he was questioned about it.

“There you are. Supper is ready.” Mycroft studied him suspiciously, “What were you doing outside?”

“Shall I give you a minute by minute inventory of my whereabouts _brother_?” When there was no reply and only a continuous speculation of his person, Sherlock decided to play the game. “Let’s see. At approximately half five I took a shower. Shall I tell you my routine? You see, I start with the shampoo, throughly washing and rinsing. Then I let the conditioner soak in, it helps immensely to let it sit. Then I take out the soap and lather it down my arms-“ He mimics his actions as he would in the shower.

“Sherlock-“

“My stomach-“ His hands run down his stomach.

“ _Sherlock_ -“

“Then my co-“

“SHERLOCK THAT’S ENOUGH.”

Sherlock smirked, having successfully made Mycroft angry. He walked past Mycroft and went into the dinning room where his mother and father sat already. He sat in his usual chair and started to eat without a word. He ate ravenously, suddenly feeling as if he hadn’t in days which may very well be true. His parents stared at him with wide eyes, shocked by his lack of manners. Mycroft walked in silently and sat down, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

“Sherlock…there is a fork beside you…” His mother frowned at him.

“Hm?” He looked over at the side of his plate and lifted it up, “Cheers!” He smirked and took in spoonfuls into his mouth. His parents didn’t say another word for a while.

“So…Sherlock. How are your classes?”

“Mm. Dreadful. Exceptionally boring.” He murmured and grabbed a roll from a basket and tore it into small pieces before eating them one by one.

“Surly they can’t all be boring…”

“Hm. I suppose not. I do rather enjoy my…extra curricular activities…” He smirked to himself.

“Which are?”

“Mummy, don’t entertain his childishness.” Mycroft glared at Sherlock from behind his wine glass.

“I assure you Mummy, it is anything but childish.” He smirked at Mycroft who looked horribly offended.

“That’s enough, Sherlock!”

“What are you two going on about?” Mummy was terribly confused.

“Nothing.” Mycroft glared at his brother who seemed to be greatly enjoying himself.

Sherlock lifted up his wine glass and drank it all back at once. His parents stared as Mycroft glared.

“Is there more wine?” He stood and made his way to the kitchen where he grabbed a bottle and made his way back outside without a word. He walked for a bit and found himself at a near by pond on the property. He sat down on a smooth rock which he had spent many hours on growing up. He took a drink straight from the bottle and laid back, looking up at the stars. He was perfectly content until he heard his phone go off.

With reluctance he pulled it out of his pocket and his heart began to race as he saw the name on the screen. Victor. They hadn’t spoken in days. He felt sick to his stomach as he opened it up.

_Sherlock, I’ve been thinking a lot about this and I’ve really enjoyed our time together but I think we’re both in different places and I think we need to be done. If you figure things out…maybe we can try again but I think this is for the best…Happy Christmas Sherlock, I hope you’ll find happiness. -Victor Trevor_

It was freezing, ice cold in his veins and his chest felt as though it had collapsed in upon itself. He signed his full name.

Sherlock read it over and over until it was memorised and burned into his eyes. What had he done?

***

He jolted suddenly, looking around in confusion as his mind tried to catch up with what he was seeing. He was in a forest…ice crystallised the few remaining leaves and pine needles, frost covered the floor and his clothes felt damp. Where was he? What time was it? He looked around to find his phone beside him. It was completely destroyed, the screen cracked and unable to turn on. It took him a few moments to remember and cold dread coursed through him. He bent over and let out all of the contents of his stomach. It was cold and hot…he felt miserable but he knew he had to get up or risk hypothermia. He slowly made it to his feet and tucked the broken phone into his pocket before stumbling through the trees. It was probably five or six in the morning and the house still looked quiet.

Sherlock stumbled through the garden and pushed through the doors. He nearly collapsed once he made it inside, shivering from the cold. He heard footsteps approach but he was too exhausted to move.

“My God, Sherlock. What happened to you?” Mycroft came around to kneel before him, concern actually showing on his face. Sherlock pulled out his phone and Mycroft took it from him with a frown. “What happened?”

“Victor broke up with me…” He felt too miserable to lie, too exhausted to pretend that Mycroft didn’t know. Mycroft always knew.

“Oh, Sherlock…” He sighed and helped him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s draw you a bath and get you to bed.”

Sherlock normally would have felt embarrassed to have his brother help him bathe and dress but he couldn’t seem to find the motivation to care. Everything was falling…burning. It wasn’t until Mycroft had helped him into bed and the comfort of the many blankets on top of him brought ease and relief into his chilled bones. He could feel sleep begin to take over, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Mycroft made sure he was completely covered by the blankets.

“I failed…” He mumbled.

“Relationships come and go, Sherlock. You will find someone else.”

“No…I failed. My marks…” He was fighting sleep, barely able to stay conscious.

“What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I can’t go back…They said I can’t go back…”

“To school?” Sherlock’s silence was all Mycroft needed for conformation. He sighed and tried to hide his disappointment. “We will speak about this later…sleep well, brother mine.” Sherlock let out a barely audible hum as his breathing deepened almost instantly. Mycroft watched him for some time before leaving him to his restless slumber.

A happy Christmas, indeed.

 

* * *

AN: Happy Christmas everyone! 

 


	5. Inane Celebrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter Chapter.  
> Enjoy!

Chapter 4

Mycroft starred down at his tea, his hands being warmed until almost the point of pain but he found comfort in that, it was grounding. Sherlock had dug himself into a hole that only Mycroft could fix. A donation to the school, a formal apology perhaps. The dread lie in Sherlocks actions, however. He seemed to be far more thin than Mycroft had last seen him and dark circles surrounded his pale eyes. That motivation and spark that Sherlock always held, was all but dead and Mycroft had a terrible inkling that Sherlock was abusing…something. Some kind of substance because he had changed drastically in only a few months.

Sherlock had been asleep for nearly an entire day which unnerved Mycroft to no end. Sherlock rarely slept and when he did, it was only for a few hours at a time. He took a breath and decided to check on his brother. He knocked very lightly incase Sherlock was indecent but there was no reply.

“Sherlock?” Silence. Mycroft opened the door and peered in to see the bed empty. He frowned and went through the house looking for him but there was no sign. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to disappear without a word but in this state, Mycroft worried. He grabbed his jacket and made his way out past the garden and out towards the pond where he would typically find Sherlock in his childhood. Sherlock was laying on that flat rock again, eyes closed and wrapped up in his belstaff.

“What do you want Mycroft?”

“Come back inside. We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Will you stop acting like a child for a moment? You failed out of Cambridge, Sherlock. It cost Mummy and Father a fortune to send you there. You are putting us all in a questionable situation-“

“I could give two fucks about your precious social status, Mycroft, nor will I apologise for it. That _school_ was insufferable at best. Every professor was incompetent and the students unbearable. There is nothing that I can not possibly learn by myself. I don’t need a piece of paper to confirm what I already know.” He got up and glared at Mycroft. “I’m not going back.”

“You’re not staying here, Sherlock. You can try Oxford instead.”  
“I’m not going!” He shoved past Mycroft, wanting to make a point but was stopped in his tracks as Mycroft grabbed his wrist and made Sherlock turn to face him.

“This is not a game, Sherlock! You are going to school and that is final.” Sherlock rarely saw Mycroft loose his patience but this week he had been exceptional at making him do so.

_“Let go.”_ Sherlock growled lowly, a threat in his eyes that Mycroft had never seen before. This person before him was not his brother…

“Sherlock…” He let Sherlock pull away and turn his back in defiance. “What are you doing to yourself?” He couldn’t help the worry slip into the question. “Are you taking cocaine again?”

“No. Fuck off.” He started to walk back towards the estate.

“I can help you, Sherlock. I can get you help.”

“I don’t need your help, Mycroft!” He snapped, pulling the coat around him tighter and picking up the pace.

“Sherlock…this is not you. You must see that.” Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned to face him, set determination in his eyes. It made Mycroft pause.

“I want to be _alone_ , Mycroft! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!” He turned and pushed his way inside and back up to his room with a slam of the door. Mycroft sighed and ran his hands over his face, taking a moment to compose himself.

***

It was Christmas Eve and it was _hateful_. There was nothing Sherlock detested more than inane celebrations that forced him to be under the same roof as his family. It was toxic and he felt like a caged animal.

After pacing for a few minutes, Sherlock pulled out a bag and started to put clothes into it. In a hidden space under a floorboard in his closet that was covered by various boxes and a rug, Sherlock pulled out a tin box. Inside where hundreds of pounds that he had saved and hidden from his parents. He slipped it into the inside jacket pocket of his coat. With the bag in hand, he made his way to his balcony once again and slipped down to the ground. He made his way back out into the woods and dug out his box before slipping that into his bag and making his way to the main road. They wouldn’t realise he was gone for at least 12 hours. He walked for quite some time before he reached the train station and boarded the next train to London.

He fell into a fitful sleep until they had arrived and he made his way out of the station, wondering where he should go next. He hadn’t exactly made a plan, desperate to escape. He stopped at a cafe for tea and tried to come up with a plan. He needed a flat, that much was obvious but perhaps a hotel in the meantime. It had to be at one where Mycroft wouldn’t come looking for him…Sherlock looked up in surprise as a woman walked by that he recognised immediately. He grabbed the tea and his bag, pushing his way out the door. “Mrs. Hudson?”

The woman turned and smiled brightly at him, closing the space between them and hugging him. “Sherlock! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a flat.”

“It just so happens that I am renting out the flat above mine. Come with me, dear.” She smiled warmly and Sherlock followed her. They had a bit of small talk but Sherlock found that he didn’t mind it much with her. Mrs. Hudson had been one of the many nannies that Sherlock had growing up but she had been the best by far. She had left due to her sisters illness and since Sherlock went off to school, she was no longer needed once she was able to come back. It had been years but they fell into an old step that felt comfortable and familiar.

They stopped outside of Baker Street, a dark door that read 221 on the front. She unlocked the door and let him inside. “This is my flat here and yours would be up the stairs, flat B.” She led him up the stairs and showed him the flat. “The last tenants left the furniture, moved to America apparently. There’s another bedroom upstairs as well.”

“Excellent. I’ll take it.” He set down his bag and pulled out the money from within his coat. “How much?”


	6. Shezza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter to make up for the shorter one previously. Enjoy!

Chapter 5

Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before Mycroft found him. With his involvement in the British government and access to the CCTV cameras about London, Sherlock had no doubt that he would be spotted. Which was why he didn’t leave the flat. It didn’t last long, seeing as Mrs. Hudson grew tired of bringing him tea and biscuits. He was either playing his violin or in a daze from the cocaine that he had become very dependant on. The closest he came to sleep were the hours he spent spread out along the couch, his mind lethargic and relatively manageable but it couldn’t last…he had used up the very last of the cocaine. Having grown up outside of London, Sherlock knew the city but he didn’t know anyone who could get him a fix. He thought it best to head down to a seedier part of the city, sure to find a dealer lurking around.

He waited until dark and pulled on a black hooded coat and black trousers, hoping it would make him undetectable. The hood was drawn as far down as he could manage without running into things as he skidded along the shadows, avoiding the street lamps and the obvious placement of the CCTV cameras.

Sherlock was coming down from his last high and an insistent tremor ran through his body. He _needed_ more. Just one hit…something to take the edge off.

He came upon an alleyway just across the street where he could see two faint silhouettes speaking quietly. He watched as they both looked around before exchanging their possessions and as one party left, Sherlock quickly crossed the street and approached the figure against the shadow of two buildings.

“Excuse-“ Sherlock gasped as the man yanked him, shoving Sherlock against the closest wall and holding a knife to his throat.

“What’d you want? You some kind of copper?”

“No, I want to buy…”

“Buy _what_?” The man sneered, the knife still to Sherlocks throat. He should be terrified for his life right now and there was a part of him that was but there was a larger part that gave him a sick thrill.

“Cocaine…if you have it, or if you know someone that sells…I just moved to London.” He was growing more desperate by the minute.

The man laughed and let go of Sherlock, having noticed the obvious signs of craving-of coming down off of a high. “It’s always the posh ones. How much d’you want, mate?”   
“Whatever you have on you.” He bit his lip as a shiver ripped through his body and he groaned with desperate need. “ _Please_!”

The man laughed again, “That’s a pretty penny.” He looked at Sherlock and his desperation and knew he could up the price, “£120 per gram.”

“Are you serious?” It was outrageous, beyond what he had spent before but then again, he always got it through other students.

“Look, if you don’t want it then fuck off.” The man was about to walk off when Sherlock spoke up.

“No! Wait…it’s fine. I’ve got it.” Sherlock took out the money from his pocket and handed it over as the man gave him a paper bag which held a plastic bag inside containing exactly what he wanted. Sherlock nodded, rolling up the bag and shoving it in his trouser pocket.

“Here’s my number when you run out. Name’s Wiggin’s.” Sherlock took the slip of paper and tucked it into his pocket as well. “What’s your name then, seeing as we’ll be having business together.”

Sherlock looked up, straight at Wiggins, “Shezza.”

“Right. Well, Shezza. I’ll be seeing you.” Wiggins sauntered off down the street and Sherlock made his way as quickly as he could back to his flat. The second he was inside, he stripped off the coat, throwing it to the floor and making his way into the kitchen, setting up the equipment with practiced ease. The tremors didn’t help and he missed the vein in his arm a couple times before sinking it in properly.

The world seemed to realign and come into focus. He was in command of his body and his mind.

***

Mycroft hadn’t known what to say to their parents upon finding that Sherlock had run off. He had checked all of Sherlock’s usual spots with no luck, even going into work and trying to track his movements. There was a sign of him at the train station but as he paid in cash, Mycroft only had to assume that Sherlock had gone to London. He had wanted to move there for ages but it wasn’t going to be easy to find his brother. He told their parents the truth, apart from Mycroft’s assumption of substance abuse. It only caused worry for their mother who grew weaker by the day as the cancer continued to consume her. How could Sherlock be so selfish?

Mycroft had to remind himself that Sherlock wasn’t in the right mind set. He hadn’t been the same since he was with that Trevor boy…perhaps he could start there.

Mycroft made his way to Cambridge and requested to see Trevor in accordance to government inquiries. Mycroft waited in an empty office until Trevor was escorted in and instructed to sit.

“Good afternoon.” Mycroft looked the boy over, reading everything he needed to know about Trevor’s past.

“Who are you?” The boy was scared.

“That doesn’t matter. I’m looking into a missing persons case, perhaps you will be of some help.”

“Missing? Who?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Trevor couldn’t conceal his shock in time to feign innocence. “It’s come to my attention that you were… _friends_.”

“Not exactly…Look, I haven’t heard from Sherlock in at least a week now. I don’t know where he’s at but I’ve been at my parent’s during the leave, I don’t know where he is, I swear!”

“I don’t expect that you do.” Mycroft replied cooly, straightening to stare him down.

“S-Sir?” Trevor cowered.

“You may not know where Sherlock Holmes is but you are aware of why he was expelled from this school.”

“I-“

“He was hospitalised from an overdose not long ago. Cocaine.” Trevor was afraid now. Good. “It is my belief that he has continued using. Is that correct?”

“I don’t-“

“Is that correct? Victor.”

“Yes…yes, sir.” Mycroft hid his disappointment well but inside, he had been hoping that it wasn’t true.

“And he received this from you?” Victor grew deathly pale.

“I-I just bought it…I wasn’t selling…Please don’t tell my parents, they’ll kill me! I’m sorry, I-” He was nearly begging but Mycroft couldn’t care less. He had destroyed Sherlock. That was unforgivable.

“I am sure you are.” Mycroft stood, buttoning his suit jacket and grabbing his umbrella. He left without a word as he took out his phone and called a number in his contacts. “Victor Trevor, Cambridge.” Was all he said to the voiceless person on the other end and the line went dead. He climbed into the awaiting black car. “Take me to London.” The car took off and Mycroft ran his hands over his face. Sherlock would be the death of him.

***

Sherlock felt as though he was going mad. He needed to leave the flat that was starting to feel more like a jail cell. He had holed himself away for days and it had only set his nerves on edge. As night fell, he pulled on his belstaff and made his way out into the cold night air. He had no destination in mind, just needing to stretch his legs.

He had roamed on, lost in his thoughts when he heard a gun shot. It was muffled, clearly inside one of the houses near the street. He turned as he heard two more shots and a man sprinting out from one of the houses down the block and disappearing into the night. Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, debating if he should phone the police but his curiosity won out as he made his way to the house the man had run out of.

It was dark and he could already smell the metallic scent of iron. In the kitchen lay a woman, clearly mid forties, blonde, a secondary school English teacher that had been having an affair with the Maths teacher. Clearly. The husband was jealous and killed her and yet there were three shots that went off and only one to her head. He turned and ventured upstairs to the bedroom where he was surprised to find the husband, partially clothed, having been shot twice in the chest. He had bled out on the bed.

That was wrong…the Maths teacher should of been the one on the bed…why would it be the husband?

Sherlock began to examine the man’s body when two men suddenly shouted at him to freeze. He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed, holding up his hands. There was no reason to fight against them as he was put in cuffs and brought into a police car. He sighed in annoyance and rested his head against the window. If he could just _think_ , there was a solution to the crime…what was it? He was starting to loose control again, a time where he would of injected himself again to focus. But instead, he was being held in a police car for a crime he didn’t commit.

His door was opened and he was unceremoniously drug out and pushed against the car. They hadn’t left the crime scene and much to his disdain, he was now face to face with a detective. He sighed, barely suppressing the roll of his eyes.

“Right. You’re going to tell me your name and where you stowed the gun.” Sherlock looked at the detective. He was new, within the first few months of his promotion but the stress was already getting to him. Dark bags under his eyes but he had an air of authority that Sherlock found refreshing.

“Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t kill them.” He sighed in exasperation. “Obviously.”

The detective raised an eyebrow and hardened his gaze. “You were found right next to one of the bodies and you expect me to believe that you didn’t murder them? What was your motivation? Looking for valuables? Money?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Clearly I didn’t kill them. The gun was fired from a man who was left handed in which I am not. You will find no residue from the gun or from either body on my person. I was walking by when I heard the shots and came in to investigate.”

“And you didn’t think to call the police?”

“Three shots were fired in a residential neighbourhood, you must have received at least half a dozen calls from the surrounding residences.” The detective paused, unable to deny the truth in that.

“If you’re telling the truth, why would you think it’s acceptable to investigate a murder? You are not affiliated with the police.”

“ _Please_. I could solve this murder before the rest of you lot put together.”

“Lestrade!” One of the officers called out and the detective turned, “Neighbours reported seeing a man running out of the house after the last shot.”

“Call in for the CCTV footage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lestrade, is it.” Sherlock drawled. “Seeing as there were witnesses, take these off, immediately.” He turned as best he could to lift up his wrists behind his back. The handcuffs were digging into the skin painfully.

“I don’t know who you think you are, Mr. Holmes but you’re coming back to Scotland Yard.” Lestrade opened the car door and shoved him into the backseat.

“This is completely unnecessary!” The door closed and Sherlock glared at Lestrade, wishing him a painful death.

Sherlock was brought back to Scotland Yard and put into a holding cell. He paced out of pure boredom and the itching for a fix that had begun.

***

Mycroft’s phone rang just outside of London, “Yes?” His eyes widened and he nearly dropped the mobile. “I understand. I will be there within the hour.” He sat the phone down in his lap and called out to his driver, “Change of plans. The destination is New Scotland Yard.”

The driver confirmed and Mycroft leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as he tried to process what he had just been told.

Sherlock was indeed, in London. And he had been arrested. 


	7. Doctor Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for Johnlock?

Chapter 6

He couldn’t sit still. It was growing late into the night and Sherlock was growing more aggravated by the minute. He grabbed onto the bars of his cell and glared at Lestrade who came over to check on him.

“Let. Me. Out.” Sherlock growled, sneering at the man before him.

“Not bloody likely. Especially after that stunt you pulled on the last guard.”

“He was an idiot.”

“You told him his wife is cheating on him-“

“Yes.”

“With his sister-“

“Obviously.”

Lestrade frowned and put his hands in his trouser pockets as he studied Sherlock. “How long’s it been?”

“Since what?” Sherlock spat, resuming his pacing.

“Your last fix.” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and clenched his jaw before resuming his pace.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He mumbled.

“I think you do…What is it? Heroine? Meth?”

Sherlock scowled and rounded on Lestrade but stopped before the bars and glared at him as menacingly as he could. “Do I look like a Meth addict?”

“No.” Sherlock glared at the wall beside him, clenching the bars until his knuckles were white. “But you do look like an addict.”

Sherlock turned his gaze back to Lestrade, “If you have come here to accuse me of possession then you are sorely mistaken, I-“  
“Actually, I’m taking you into one of the holding rooms. Turn around and place yous hands on your head.” Lestrade brought out the handcuffs and began to open the door as Sherlock scowled once again but did as he was told.

Sherlock was taken to a room and placed in a chair opposite of another with a table in between. His hands were still in cuffs but attached to a chain which held him to his side of the table. “Be back in a bit.” Lestrade said and left Sherlock to his own devices. His leg bounced and he squirmed in the chair, his fingers unconsciously scratching at his left arm.

Lestrade made his way into the adjoining observation room where he could see Sherlock sitting restlessly. Not a minute later, there was a knock on the door and his colleague Sally Donovan was escorting another man into the room. He was taller than Lestrade and held himself with high authority, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella in his right hand.

“This is Mycroft Holmes, sir.”

“Mr. Holmes, I’m DI Lestrade. Thank you for coming down.” He held out his hand which was met briskly with Mycroft’s own.

“I regret that we must meet under such circumstances.” Mycroft drawled, his gaze intent as if he could see through Lestrade. It made him shiver.

“Yeah…um.” He turned to face Sherlock and cleared his throat. “Sherlock was found at a crime scene before we arrived. He claims that he took no part in the crime-“

“And you do not believe him?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t take his eyes off of his brother on the other side of the glass. He looked worse since Mycroft had last seen him. His insistent movements relayed to Mycroft what he already knew.

“Well, honestly, I don’t see him as a suspect. I was actually intrigued by his knowledge of the crime without having known either victim. We would of assumed a murder/suicide but Sherlock said the murderer was left handed…I don’t know how the bloody hell he noticed that but it’ll help in our pursuits to-“ Lestrade paused as he saw Mycroft entering the holding room, not having noticed that he left the adjoining one where Lestrade was apparently talking to himself. He frowned and pressed the intercom so he could listen to their conversation.

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes as he saw Mycroft walk in. “So, Sherlock. Back on the sauce?” Mycroft sauntered over and sat stiffly in the chair opposite him.

“Fuck off, Mycroft.” He glared, trying to hold still.

“Mummy would be very disappointed. Of course, that doesn’t matter to you, does it? Here she is, in her final days, and you run off to London without a word.”

“You’re here as well so-“

“Looking for you!” Mycroft snapped and leaned in towards Sherlock who was determined not to shy away. “I don’t know why _killing_ yourself gives you such perverse pleasure but it ends now! Do you hear me Sherlock?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s an experiment.” Sherlock sat back, feigning boredom.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Mycroft sneered. “But you forget, _brother mine_ , I am the smart one.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away, “Are we quite finished?”

“Yes. I believe we are.” Mycroft stood and straightened out his suit. “I have seen to that you will be taken to a clinic straight away.”

_“WHAT?”_ Sherlock tried to stand but the chains held him down and he yanked them in his displeasure. “You can’t make me! You’re not allowed!”

“Actually, I can. You see brother dear, your tenacity for trouble has forced Mummy and Father’s hand. With her illness, they could not possibly deal with this so, they signed away their rights as your legal guardians. Which leaves me, I’m afraid.” Sherlock sat, agape with surprise, words failing him for once. “Yes. That must leave quite a shock. No matter. This decision is final and you will stay in the clinic until you are recovered and then you will be on your way to Oxford.”

“I’m not-“ Sherlock attempted weakly.

“Do not test me.” Mycroft snapped. “I will always win, Sherlock. Always.” Mycroft smoothed down his coat and grabbed onto the door handle to let himself out. “Do enjoy your stay at the clinic, it is the best in the country.” Mycroft stepped out and Sherlock sat numbly at his table.

Mycroft opened the door to the viewing room, “I will be on my way now. Thank you for your…understanding Detective Inspector.”

“It’s Greg.” He sputtered out.

“I’m sorry?”

“My um…my name. You can call me Greg. Thanks for dropping by Mr. Holmes…” He couldn’t help the flush on his cheeks as he stumbled over his words.

“Mycroft, please.” He gave a nearly noticeable smirk and took Greg’s hand. “Good night, Greg.” His hand was firm and he lingered for a fraction of a second before tuning and disappearing through the door.

Greg stared after him and let out a sigh, running his hands through his hair. “Fucking hell…” He murmured before taking a moment to collect himself and going in to get Sherlock. “Alright, time to go.”

Sherlock scowled in disgust as he looked at Greg. “You cannot be serious.”

“Wha-“

“My brother? _God._ That’s vile.” Greg couldn’t help the flush to come back to his face.

“Shut it.” He grabbed Sherlock and forced him out of the room, dragging him out to his police car.

“I’d warn you to stay away from him but clearly that’s not going to happen. You actually find him…attractive?” He made a face of disgust as Greg shoved him not too gently into the back of the police car. Sherlock continued to make comments as Greg drove him to the clinic, he was growing increasingly annoyed as they drove on.

They were expecting Sherlock as they arrived who was still in handcuffs until Greg released them inside of Sherlock’s room.

“You’ve got to be joking. This is the best in the country? The walls are yellow! There’s flowers on it! I’m going to go mad in here! Is that what he wants?” Sherlock rounded on Greg who didn’t find Sherlock the least bit intimidating. He was gangly and weak, his body worse for ware from his drug use.

“Sherlock, your brother has the best intentions for you, believe it or not. If there’s any solace, I think you’d be a great asset to the NSY, once you’re clean that is.”

“I’m not going to work for the _government_.” He scoffs and sits on the bed that is surprisingly comfortable. He wraps himself in his coat that he knows will soon be taken away from him.

“Just think about it.” Greg gives him a reassuring look before making his way out and leaving Sherlock alone until a nurse comes in with a change of clothes and a bag in which he must place his clothing and personal items in.

Sherlock glares, adamantly refusing to cooperate. “Mr. Holmes, this will be a lot easier if you do as I ask…”

“Go away.” He pulled his coat tighter around his thin frame.

“Mr. Holmes-“

“GO AWAY!” He snapped, throwing one of the pillows at her. She yelped and quickly left the room, Sherlock buried his face in his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. His body shook, aching for a fix, his head feeling as if it would explode at any moment.

He heard the door open once again and he was ready to tell the nurse off once more when he looked up and saw someone new enter the room. He was a student-obviously-in his last year at Bart’s, moonlighting for the clinic to pay off his tuition. He was average…should have been anyway. Sherlock couldn’t help but be captivated by his blond hair and striking blue eyes that held so much warmth. He smiled as if Sherlock were an old friend, as if he actually cared. He wanted to hate this man that was dressed in all white scrubs and his equally white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

“Sherlock Holmes?” He read off of the chart in his hands. His strong…skilful hands. “I’m Doctor Watson.” He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Sherlock, a warm smile still on his face that was claiming all of Sherlock’s attention.   
“Sherlock…I’m Sherlock…” He mumbled, unable to take his eyes from Doctor Watson.

“Yes,” The Doctor chuckled, “I’m aware. How are you feeling?”

How was he feeling? Sherlock couldn’t think past the blond hair and blue eyes and the obscene white he wore that all but made him glow in the early morning sun that began to creep through the window. His mind was stuck on a loop of all of Doctor Watson’s attributes.

“I-I don’t…” He mumbled, a shiver running through him, “cold…”

The doctor nodded and set the chart aside. “You must be tired, Sherlock. Why don’t we get you bathed and into some fresh clothes, then straight into bed, hmm?” He smiled gently and Sherlock couldn’t see what the matter with doing exactly that, would be.

“Okay…” He mumbled and stood shakily.

“Wonderful.” Doctor Watson smiled brighter and Sherlock swore his heart skipped a beat. He followed the doctor, entranced, as he was brought to a shower. “Soap is inside, your towel here and fresh clothes on the bench just there. When you’re done, knock on the door and I will escort you back to your room. Perhaps you can have something to eat?” He gave Sherlock such a hopeful look, he couldn’t deny the doctor anything. Doctor Watson smiled once again and left Sherlock to shower.

He could hardly remember the shower or how he changed his clothes and left his dirty ones on the bench along with his coat. He followed Doctor Watson back to his room and ate dutifully as the doctor smiled gently and asked him a few more health related questions. As the bowl was nearly empty, his eyes began to droop. Exhaustion gripped him so tightly, he couldn’t do anything but obey.

“Alright, let’s get you into bed.” Doctor Watson helped him under the sheets, Sherlock’s eyes nearly closing upon impact of the pillows. “Sleep well.”

“You too, Doctor Watson…” He mumbled his eyes fluttering as sleep began to drag him down.

The doctor chuckled and looked at Sherlock before he left the room, “Call me, John.” He gave Sherlock one last brilliant smile and Sherlock sighed as the door shut, his eyes fully closed and giving out one last mumble.

“G’night John…”


	8. Sole Intentions

Chapter 7

  
John was exhausted. Between his final year at Bart’s where he was taking care of patients and doing procedures, he was also moonlighting at a clinic to help pay for his schooling. He wasn’t sleeping enough but being a doctor had always been his dream and he was so very close to achieving it…

He stopped at a cafe and got a very strong cup of coffee for his night at the clinic. It was normally mundane for him since he worked nights and typically the patients were asleep but John found that tonight, he was looking forward to his shift. His new patient, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be an interesting case. There was not a lot on his file the previous night but John could tell from their short time together that Sherlock was different.

John made his way inside and greeted the receptionist before heading in to the staff locker room and changing into his white scrubs. He drank his coffee as he grabbed Sherlock’s chart from the nurses station and took a look at it to see if there were any updates. It was surprisingly blank, “Has no one checked in on Holmes today?” He frowned at the nurse who sat at the desk.

“They tried…anytime one of the nurses came near him, he grew violent. Ended up having to sedate him and strap him to the bed. He’s been asleep ever since.” She frowned, “He scratched Emily…bleeding and all.”

John closed the chart, “I see…”

“Doctor Stevens scheduled a psych evaluation for him, Thursday.”

“What? Why? He’s in withdraw, of course he’s angry.” She shrugged and went back to her computer, leaving John to go and see Sherlock for himself. He knocked lightly on the door.

“Go away.” He heard a weak murmur from the other side of the door. John sighed and opened it anyway. Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring, ready to fight the next nurse off and grew silent as John walked in.

***

_John. John’s here._

Sherlock sat up slowly and pulled the blanket up to cover himself like a security. His body still felt weighed down by the sedative and he leaned against the wall where his bed sat. John pulled up a chair and sat back down in front of him.

“Hello, Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“I haven’t had a hit in over 24 hours, how do you think I’m feeling, _doctor_?” He sneered, despite his likeness for John, nothing would abate him now.

“I can’t say, Sherlock. I’ve never been a cocaine addict.” He said it in such a way that came across as a fact but came across as an underlying insult. There was no arguing with that, as it was true but it made Sherlock seethe all the same.

“Is that why you’re here? To make me admit it? Your precious _first step_ to recovery! I’m not an average civilian, I don’t function like you do, I’m not an idiot and I will not be forced into your _program_ just because my brother made me! You’re working for him…I know you are!” He yanked at the straps that still held his arms down, clenching his jaw so tight that it hurt.

“Sherlock. Sherlock you need to calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself. And I am not working for your brother, I don’t know who he is.”

“Why should I believe you? He probably paid you to say that!”

John frowned, “Why would he pay me?”

“Because he pays everyone! He paid Mrs. Hudson, he paid those insipid guards to follow me in university and he paid Scotland Yard and _you_. You’re his new victim. Why would you say no? You’re crumbling from school debt with no family members to help you pay for it. Of course, you would take his filthy money.” The straps gave him just enough leeway to reposition himself but not enough to get off the bed. He was like an unruly dog who was tied to a post and left to himself.   
“Sherlock, I swear to you, I have never met or spoken to your brother before but it sounds to me like he was just trying to protect you.” John’s voice had stayed calm the entire time despite Sherlock’s rising anger.

Sherlock sat still and glared at John, “I want to leave. Take these off!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You can’t legally hold me here!”

“If you are a danger to yourself or others, we can do just that.”

“I’m not _suicidal_.” He nearly rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps not but you did attack a nurse.”

“Oh my God.” He scowled, “I didn’t do anything!”

“She was bleeding, Sherlock.” John bit out, growing impatient with the constant denial.

“Barely.” He huffed and pulled the blanket back up to his chin as it had fallen during his fit.

***

John sat in an empty office and rubbed his hands over his face in exhaustion. Sherlock was an entire new experience for him, he preferred a bleeding wound to his psychological obscurities. He could see why Dr. Stevens had appointed that psych evaluation. Sherlock was right, they could only hold him for 72 hours unless he was a danger to himself or others but that also required an evaluation on his mental stability which seemed to be lacking.

John had left Sherlock to eat his dinner and came back to find it completely untouched. “Sherlock, I want you to try and eat, even a little.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“This will help your recovery.”

“I ate _yesterday_.” He murmured and turned so his back was to John as he laid on his side, only his hair peaking out from under the covers.

His comment made John frown, “Sherlock…you are supposed to eat three meals a day.” He was met by silence. John wrote down this odd exchange. There were a few minutes of silence as John wrote down his observations and he looked up in surprise as Sherlock replied.

“Digestion slows me down.”

“Sherlock…can you look at me, please.” There were a few more moments of silence before he slowly turned to his other side to face John, only his eyes and a few curls exposed from under the blanket. “You replied after nearly five minutes. Are you aware of that?” He just gave John a blank look, as if he didn’t care.

“I want you to go now.” He mumbled and pulled the blanket over his eyes. He was oddly subdued which only brought concern to John.

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving. I have a few more questions for you.” No response. “Sherlock.” Pause. “Sherlock, listen to me.”

John narrowed his eyes and stood, carefully peeling back the blanket. Sherlock’s breathing was even, his eyes closed as he slept. He looked younger as he slept but he cheeks were far too shallow and his eyes were rimmed in exhaustion.

He took advantage of this moment to run a few tests, checking his blood pressure, temperature and drawing a sample of blood that they had been unable to retrieve earlier. John frowned at the dark track marks on Sherlock’s left arm. Evidence of his miscalculations and his repetitive insert of a needle.

John pulled the blanket back up to his shoulders after he was finished and paused as his hand drifted to Sherlock’s hair. It was surprisingly soft and he was momentarily captivated as Sherlock sighed in his sleep and unconsciously nuzzled into John’s hand. He drew his hand back quickly at the inappropriate nature of the touch and the warmth that seemed to gather in his chest at Sherlock’s sigh.

***

John quickly gathered his things and left the room, groaning to himself as he leaned against the door. He had never had a reaction like that towards a man. He had dated plenty of girls in his primary and secondary school days and unfortunately, less now that he was at Bart’s but that _had_ to be the issue.

_I need to get laid._ He justified it to himself, there was no way he could like men. John Watson was straight… _very straight._ At least, that was what he was trying to convince himself after that incident. He repeated it like a mantra as he clocked out and went to a local pub with the sole intention of finding a companion for the night.

If only he could get Sherlock out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recovering Sherlock is not a happy Sherlock.  
> Comments would be much appreciated just to know how you're feeling about the story!   
> Cheers!


	9. Promise Me

  
Chapter 8

John’s face still stung, he could see a faint patch of red as he observed his cheek in his bathroom mirror. The night had started off well, chatting up a young woman at the pub and convincing her to come back to his flat. She had fallen to her knees before him and took him into her mouth. It was pure bliss, he tangled his fingers into her auburn curls and moaned, _“God Yes.”_ He didn’t last too long since he couldn’t remember the last time he had been with a woman. He threw back his head with a groan, coming into her mouth as he cried out. _Sherlock._

She pulled back and looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “Who’s Sherlock?”

John gaped at her, he could have sworn he hadn’t said the name out loud. “Uh…no one.” He mumbled, awkwardly tucking himself back into his trousers.

“Are you with someone? Are you cheating on this Sherlock with me?” She was getting hysterical, “Is Sherlock a guy? OH MY GOD are you gay? You bastard!” She quickly grabbed her coat and bag as John tried to get a word in edge wise and tell her she was way off base but instead he was met with a cold hard slap.

She left quickly after that, leaving John to stand there in a flutter of emotions. On one hand he felt fantastic having finally had sex for the first time in ages but he also couldn’t understand why he had said Sherlock’s name in the first place.

_Fucking hell, John. What’s that about?_

He groaned and took a quick shower before climbing into bed. He was exhausted and it didn’t take long to sleep but those hunting eyes and dark curls seemed to find him in sleep and refused to let him go.

***  
The worst was not over but the pain had mostly ebbed. Exhaustion took hold of Sherlock and refused to let him go. Life over the next few days was a blur. He recalled speaking to someone briefly…John perhaps? Asking if he was okay, if he needed anything. _No._ He just wanted to go back to sleep.

It was dark when he roused again, completely unaware of the time apart from the darkened window, he was relieved to find his wrists were free. Sherlock got up and went into the bathroom, frowning in the mirror at the beard that had started to grow and the sickly state of his reflection. He turned from the mirror and relieved himself before splashing water on his face. He wanted a shower more than anything but was surprised by the growl that admitted from his stomach. _Stupid transport._

He tried the door to his room and found it to be unlocked. He pulled on his robe and padded barefoot into the hallway and towards the nurses station, hoping they would have something edible. He wasn’t too sure on his feet, still feeling tired and disoriented, every so often having to place a hand along the wall to steady himself as he walked. He squinted as he came to the nurses station, the fluorescent lights far too bright.

“Sherlock?” He turned around to see John approaching him with a look of concern on his face. He was shorter than Sherlock remembered. “Are you okay? Why are you out of bed?”

“Seems my transport requires substance.” His voice was gravely from sleep.

“Your-what? Oh.” It took John a moment and he chuckled, “Come on then. I’ll get you something to eat.” He lead Sherlock to a kitchen where he sat Sherlock down at a table and went to the cupboards, looking for something. “Is there anything in particular you’re wanting?”

“Tea.” He rubbed his hands over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“You need more than Tea, Sherlock.” John frowned but put the kettle on anyway.

“Biscuits.”

John sighed, “Sherlock, you need more than carbs and sugar.” Sherlock’s answering glare made John huff but he acquiesced and pulled down a pack of biscuits, placing them on the table. Sherlock opened them and pulled one out and nibbling on it like he was a child. John brought tea over, two cups, one for each of them, and sat opposite Sherlock. Silence fell over them as Sherlock ate and drank his tea, John observing him and drinking his own.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock snapped a few moments later which made John flinch a bit in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re wondering how I am. I said, I’m fine.” He pushed away the biscuits that were a quarter empty now and took a sip of his tea. “Good.” He mumbled.

“What?”

“The tea…it’s um…it’s good.” He glanced at John quickly and seemed to shyly look away.

“Oh. Glad you like it.”

Silence fell between them again until their tea was gone. John washed the cups and put away the biscuits. “Would you like a shower?”

“Yes. I am assuming you will not give me a razor.” He ran a hand over the scruff along his jaw. John’s eyes followed his motion.

“No…But if you want I can do it. I mean…I can shave your um.” He gestured to Sherlock’s face and went a bit red.

“That would be amenable.” John led Sherlock to the showers before going off to get him a towel. He nearly dropped it as he came back to see Sherlock completely bare before him. “Um..here’s your towel. I’ll just put it here…” He placed it on a bench outside his shower as Sherlock stood there, completely unabashed about going starkers in front of John.

Sherlock pulled the curtain closed but poked his head out just as John was about to leave. “Thank you, _doctor_.” Sherlock gave him a genuine smile and retreated back into the shower. John nodded to himself and ran his hands over his face before going back to Sherlock’s room where he changed the sheets and pillow cases before going to check in on him.

John wandered back into the showers, “Sherlock are you-“ He paused as he saw Sherlock standing there with the towel wrapped around his waist. His hair hung down and wet, leaving droplets to cascade onto his surprisingly toned torso. He was far too thin as it were but his physique was not quite displeasing…John had to shake his head to get his thoughts in order before speaking again, “Let’s have that shave, hm?”

Sherlock sat down as John took the shaving cream and squirted some into his hands, his heart picked up a bit as he reached out and ran them along Sherlock’s jaw. There was something oddly sensual about it. _You’re a doctor for God sake, John. Get it together._

John took a breath as he washed the shaving cream from his hands and put himself into that medical mind frame. It was easier if he thought of it as a medical procedure instead of shaving his patient that he had dreamt about the past few nights…

When John was finished he handed Sherlock a hand towel to wipe his face off and he couldn’t help but smile, “Much better. Oh, you missed a spot.” John reached out and wiped a small bit of shaving cream from right under Sherlock’s bottom lip. His thumb running across the underside of it, his eyes finding Sherlock’s right after, surprised to see the hungry look in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked back at John. He felt paralysed, unable to tear himself away.

They slowly began to lean in, closer and closer, John’s eyes starting to close, his heart beating hard in his chest. He jolted as a loud clang surrounded them, the shaving cream can having been knocked over to the floor. John cleared his throat and picked it up and the razor, trying to avoid Sherlock’s eyes. “Um…so, I’ll just put this away then…” He walked off quickly, leaving Sherlock to groan to himself before padding his way back to his room.

Once John had gotten up the courage to face Sherlock again, he was fast asleep in fresh clothes and sheets. He couldn’t help but reach out and make sure he was tucked in and letting his fingers drift over his still damp hair, surprised to find it soft even in this state.

***

Thursday came far too quickly, the day of Sherlock’s psych evaluation test. John tried to prepare him the night before.  
“Listen, Sherlock. They’re going to ask you questions, they may seem inane to you but it’s important that you answer them honestly. This isn’t a time to make smart remarks.”

“So, I’ll be myself then.”

“Are you listening to me?” John pressed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his blanket up around is shoulders. “Yes. I understand, John. I’m not an idiot.”

John had worried all through his day at school on Thursday about Sherlock’s evaluation, he wished he could be there.

Sherlock reluctantly put on slippers and sat down his blanket to follow one of the nurses into an office. Dr. Stevens sat there with another man who turned to greet Sherlock. He was older than Stevens, thinning grey hair with a tweed jacket. He already wanted to leave, preparing himself to delete this entire conversation.

“Sherlock, this is Dr. Rosser, he will be doing your evaluation.” Rosser held out his hand to greet Sherlock who completely ignored it and sat down, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Stevens frowned and left the room.

Dr. Rosser turned his chair to better face Sherlock’s own and sat with a notebook, smiling Kindly at him. Sherlock wasn’t convinced.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock. How are you?”

He barely repressed a sigh, “Fine.”

“I’m going to ask you some questions, it’s more of an interview of sorts. I just need your honest answer and this will be over before you know it.” He smiled again and Sherlock just looked at him, ready to start. “Alright. Tell me why you’re in this clinic.”

“Despite the fact that you are already well aware, I was forced to come.”

“By?”

“My brother.”

  
“Why is that?”

“He’s an intrusive arsehole.”

Rosser took a second as he frowned, “Why were you placed here, specifically?”

“I enjoy the clarity that cocaine gives me.”

“Clarity?”

“ _Yes._ I’m not like you, _doctor. I see everything_.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell by looking at you that you have one-no-two cats, shorthair, most likely Scottish. You are married but your wife is hardly home, you suspect an affair, quite right I’m afraid. An ex-lover. Unfortunate for you but you won’t leave her. You’re afraid that if you’re alone at your age, you will never find anyone else and you will grow old and die and no one will even notice. You wanted to go into the medical-psychological field because you have had chronic depression your entire life and you don’t want anyone to feel the way you do. Some may say heroic, I say a waste of time. Tragedy of the human race, they are not all _functional_. Survival of the fittest. Ah, but I’ve lost track there, my mind’s terribly fast you see, I can’t keep up with it sometimes.” He stopped talking suddenly, leaving Rosser agape with shock.

“There’s…surly someone-“

“Told me about your history? No. I had no prior knowledge of you or who would be doing the evaluation.”

“I see…” He murmured and took a minute to himself, writing in his notebook. “So, you took the cocaine because…?”

“To quite the thoughts. To hone in on what I need. I cannot focus when my mind is taking in everything around me. Regardless, it was only an experiment.” He waved it off.

“An experiment?”

“Obviously.”  
“Why would you experiment with drugs?”

“I’m a chemist. I had no other subject to experiment on.”

“Have you ever had an evaluation like this before, Sherlock?”

“Mm. When I was a child. My parents had me tested.”

“What was the result?”

“High-Functioning Sociopath.” He smirked, as if it were something to be proud of.

“Do you feel that this accurately defines you?”

“Of course. Caring is not an advantage, doctor.”

Rosser frowned, “Why do you think that?”

They talked for hours. Sherlock was beyond agitated at the end, his responses one worded and his hands clenched into fists around the arms of the chair. The second Stevens walked back in and he was free to go, Sherlock tore out of the room before either doctor could say a word. He slammed his door shut, knocking the chair over in his room in his anger before climbing into the bed and retreating under his blankets.

***

John rushed to the clinic after he was done at Bart’s, eager to see Sherlock and find out the test results. He grabbed a coffee and bagel from a cafe near by before making his way to the clinic and directly up to the nurses station. “Hey, do you have the results for Holmes’ psych eval?” The nurse handed over Sherlock’s file that was now significantly heavier. John took it to an empty office with his coffee and opened it. His first glance was at the results themselves.

_Prognosis: Mild Aspergers (Aspergic)_   
_The symptoms: obsessive behaviour, lack of social understanding/emotional IQ, attachment to particular routines, apparent lack of empathy, formal style of speaking, narrow range of obsessive interests._

John sat back in the chair, staring at the paper before him. He couldn’t believe it. Sure, Sherlock was different but Aspergers? He flipped through the other pages, therapy suggestions, possible medications if he experiences depression or anxiety but he was still having a hard time processing it. He got up and quickly went to see Sherlock, the file in hand. The room was pitch black, Sherlock under his mass of blankets as usual. He poked out his head when he heard the door open.

“John.” His voice was soft, exhausted. John turned the light on dim and pulled up the chair that laid on its side, sitting before him.

“Hey. How are you?” He could see the red that rimmed Sherlock’s eyes, as if he had been crying. The thought of that made John’s heart twinge. Sherlock didn’t say anything in reply. John could see the answer in his eyes. “Can I make you some tea?” Sherlock nodded once and sat up, holding the mass of blankets around him, only his head visible as he followed John to the kitchen. It wasn’t until they both sat with tea and the biscuits Sherlock liked that the silence was broken.

“Do you think it’s true? That I have…” Sherlock trailed off, his voice only a whisper at the end.

“I can’t be certain, Sherlock. I’m not as versed in psychological evaluations but I am sure that you were evaluated by the best.” Sherlock frowned and hid a bit more into his blankets, like a turtle wanting to hide in its shell. John reach out and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s that had been holding his tea cup. “Hey. It’s okay. This doesn’t change who you are. I don’t want this to change who you are. Do you understand me, Sherlock? You’re perfect the way you are, we just need to make sure you’re not doing anything to harm yourself. Which is where I come in. I want you to understand how special you are, Sherlock. There’s no one like you. I know that when you recover and leave this clinic that you’re going to do great things. You’ll change the world with that brilliant mind of yours. Don’t think any less of yourself. Promise me.”

Sherlock was looking down at John’s hand on top of his own. It was so warm and comforting, he didn’t want it to ever leave. “Sherlock, can you promise me?” He looked up into John’s blue depths and nodded. “Let me hear you say it.”

“I promise, John.” He said quietly. John smiled warmly and squeezed his hand before retreating back to his tea cup.

“Finish up your tea and let’s get you back to bed.”   
John made sure Sherlock was tucked in before he said goodnight, his fingers aching to touch his hair. Sherlock looked so sad, it pulled at John to comfort him but he needed to keep a professional divide between them. Just as John stood to leave, Sherlock grabbed on to his wrist.

“Will you…stay?” It was barely audible but John smiled warmly at him before sitting back down.

“Of course.”

Sherlock’s eyes struggled to remain open, “Mm, how’s school?”

“Oh, it’s alright. I’ve got about a month left and then I’ve got to figure out what to do from there…I’ve actually been thinking that instead of joining a surgery here, I’d go into the army. Always wanted to. It wouldn’t be boring, that’s for sure.” He chuckled to himself, waiting for a response from Sherlock. When there was none, John listened to his even breathing for a moment before standing and making sure the blankets were tucked, his hand wandering to his hair again.

“What are you doing to me?” John sighed and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair before forcing himself one last look at his sleeping form. He left the room and changed into jeans before leaving the clinic and heading back to his flat. Thoughts of Sherlock occupying him all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love for the comments! I love to hear your feedback!


	10. Afghanistan or Iraq?

**Chapter 9**

 

John couldn’t focus, his mind preoccupied with Sherlock and how much he had changed. Sherlock was coming close to the end of his stay at the clinic as he had been following each rule diligently since his psych evaluation but he hadn’t been the same since. There was a coldness that washed over him, a detachment of any emotion which wasn’t all that unusual for Sherlock but in the weeks John had got to know him, it hadn’t been like this before. Sure, Sherlock could be seen as emotionally detached but he wasn’t, not really. He had a difficult time processing others emotions and either not caring or understanding what was acceptable to say publicly and privately but he wasn’t this shell of a person that he had become.

John’s final exams were coming up in only a week and he couldn’t focus to save his life. He tried to get the doctors to understand that Sherlock wasn’t okay but because he was so compliant as he hadn’t been before, they brushed it off. John could just see where Sherlock was headed. The second he would be released, he would find the cocaine again and this time, he may not be so lucky because he was sure to overdose eventually. John had witnessed Sherlock’s obsessive personality and he knew where this would lead. Sherlock was depressed which was not all that unusual after drug rehabilitation but if he were to be left to his own devises, John had no doubt that Sherlock would be back in the clinic in no time, if not in a hospital. 

He ate when John asked him to, a few bites here and there but he wouldn’t engage in conversation like he used to with John. Sherlock spent most of his time in bed, the lights off and surrounded in darkness. 

“Sherlock?” John opened the door and turned the lights on low, “I have your dinner.” The lump of blankets didn’t stir and John sighed as he set the food down on the table beside the bed and pulled up a chair before placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, I need you to eat.” The lump rolled over and Sherlock’s head peaked out from under it, the cold detachment in his eyes made John shiver. “Can you sit up for me, please?” 

Sherlock sat up slowly, dropping the thickest blanket over his shoulders and wrapping it around his legs as he hugged them close. He studied John under that all-seeing gaze and waited. John didn’t want to have to feed Sherlock like a child but if he left Sherlock to it, the food would go untouched. One bite at a time, Sherlock ate but when the food was only a third of the way consumed, he refused to eat anymore. “Can’t you eat a little more? Please?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at John, refusing to adhere to John’s request. “Alright…” He set the plate aside and sighed, looking Sherlock over with a frown. He didn’t look much better than when he had arrived initially but at least he had passed the worst of it. 

“Come on then. Let’s get you into a shower.” As Sherlock washed, John went into an office and looked up Sherlock’s file, finding his guardian’s name and mobile number. Mycroft Holmes. John dialled the number, it was picked up on the first ring.

“You’ve reached the office of Mycroft Holmes, how may I help you?” A woman’s voice on the other end.

“Yes, hello. This is Dr. John Watson, I’m calling about Mr. Holme’s brother, Sherlock. Is he in?” 

“One moment, please.” John nodded to himself and let out a sigh. 

“Dr. Watson,” A very authoritative voice sounded on the other end, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Holmes-“

“Mycroft, please.” 

“Mycroft…I’m calling about Sherlock. I’m sure you’re aware he’s being released in a few days but I’m concerned about his mental state. It’s not unusual for drug addicts to become depressed after rehabilitation but ever since his…diagnosis, he’s barely spoken a word.” 

“He does that, Dr. Watson. As I am sure you very well know. Sherlock has always been inclined to dramatics. He will go days on end without speaking. When he was a child he didn’t speak for an entire month.” 

“Look, Mycroft. I’ve been with Sherlock nearly every night for the past few weeks and his mental state has only grown worse. I spoke to my colleagues but they don’t find it concerning-“

“But you do?”

“Yes. They don’t know Sherlock.” _Not like I do._

“Dr. Watson, I find your attentions to my brother, commendable, albeit questionable. I assure you that this is not alarming behaviour from him, however, I will keep a close watch on him if you are concerned.”

John sighed in relief, “Yes, thank you.”

“Be careful Dr. Watson. You may find my brother intriguing but he doesn’t understand sentiment. I’m afraid his attentions to you may have gone to your head.”

“What? No, I-“

“I will be there Tuesday at noon to receive him. Good evening, Dr. Watson.” The line went dead and John put the phone down, running his hands over his face before making his way to check in on Sherlock. The shower was still running when John walked in. 

“Sherlock?  Are you okay?” There was no answer, John’s heart started to race. “Sherlock?” 

He pulled back the curtain and gasped as he saw Sherlock sitting on the shower floor, the hot water having gone cold as he hugged his knees and let the water cascade over him. His back was to John but he could see the younger man shivering. 

“Christ, Sherlock!” John hurried in and shut off the water, not caring about his own clothes getting drenched. He quickly grabbed a towel and placed it around Sherlock, helping the shivering man up. “What were you thinking?” John rubbed the towel all over Sherlock, trying to warm and dry him as Sherlock just stood there shivering He led Sherlock back to his room, helping him dress and placing every blanket on him. “Stay here. I’m going to make some tea.” 

John leaned against the kitchen counter as the kettle boiled, his eyes closed as he tried to calm his racing heart. How could he leave Sherlock to the outside world where God knows what would happen to him? He wouldn’t have pegged Sherlock as suicidal but now he wasn’t so sure. 

John brought the tea back and sat by his bedside again after placing Sherlock’s cup in his hands that still shivered. They sat in silence for some time, John unsure what to say, especially since he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t converse with him but it was Sherlock who broke the silence.

“You’re leaving.” It was barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry?” John could barely think past the sound of hearing Sherlock’s timbre again.

“After your exams. You joined the army.” 

“Oh…yeah. They needed surgeons and I didn’t exactly have a plan so…” They both fell silent, Sherlock taking a tentative sip of his tea and staring down at its contents. “What are you going to do? When you leave here, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go back to school. That way Mycroft will shut up about it.” 

John chuckled quietly, “Yeah, that’s a good idea. You’re not even 20, Sherlock. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. When you leave here, you can start over.” Sherlock didn’t reply to that and they fell into silence again.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m not sure…I’ve got training first before I get deployed.” Sherlock nodded once and set his tea aside before curling up in his bed. 

“Are you afraid to die, John?” 

John frowned, “Why would you ask that?” Sherlock just stared at him, waiting for his answer. John sighed, “No. Not really. If I do…well, I will have died for a good cause.”

“For Queen and Country.” 

“Yeah.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“It’s what I want, Sherlock. It’s what I’ve _wanted_ for a long time. And if I die…then I will die for my country.” Sherlock scoffed, “We can’t all be posh public schoolers with a mansion in Essex.” 

“It’s an _estate._ ” John chuckled and rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s comment and was graced by a small smile on Sherlock’s own lips. He looked around the room and then back to John, “I won’t miss this terrible wallpaper.” 

“No. Neither will I.” John smirked. Their conversation continued for a while before Sherlock became too tired to continue. John had given him some sleep medication in the tea as he did every night, completely unaware to Sherlock. Otherwise, he would only sleep a few hours at a time. John was reluctant to leave but he had an exam in the morning that he had to study for. With one last glance at Sherlock and a brush to his hair, he left the clinic and went back to his flat.

 

***

 

Tuesday came far too quickly. John had switched a shift just so he could be there when Sherlock was due to leave. They were both rather quiet as John helped Sherlock gather his belongings. Mycroft had sent over new clothes for him that probably costed more than three months of John’s rent but Sherlock pulled over his long woollen coat that John had seen him in initially. It made him look taller, the upturned collar accenting his cheekbones. He had never looked more breathtaking and John wanted to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair one more time but he knew it was inappropriate. Mycroft was waiting in the lobby, paperwork already signed. John shook Mycroft’s hand who thanked him and wished him a safe tour in the army. How Mycroft knew that, John had no idea but he stopped questioning the Holmes’ knowledge.

Mycroft excused himself to the awaiting car as Sherlock turned towards John who was the perfect picture of a put together member of society that if John didn’t know better, he would think Sherlock was never an addict to begin with. But he did know better and Sherlock’s facade didn’t phase him. 

“Look…I’m not your doctor anymore and this may be…unprofessional but here’s my number.” He slipped Sherlock a piece of paper, “If you need anything until I ship out, don’t hesitate to ask. And before I leave, I’ll let you know how to contact me, okay?” 

Sherlock held tight to the paper and shoved it into his coat pocket, nodding stiffly at John. “Thank you.” He said, barely distinguishable under his breath as he glanced at John, looking him up and down before turning on his heel and slamming the car door shut without a glance back. John watched them drive away, a feeling of cold dread washing over him. Would he ever see Sherlock again? The prospect of not seeing Sherlock again made him feel sick. 

John walked back inside the clinic and clocked out for the last time. 

 

 

 


	11. My Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NFSW if that's not your thing, you were warned.

**Chapter 10**

 

There were no phone calls. There were no letters.

 

The second Sherlock entered that black car, John had never heard from him again. He couldn’t help but feel the disappointment as the mail arrived and he didn’t receive a single one from Sherlock. He had reached out, left a few voicemails and instructions on how to reach him while deployed but as the days went on, John’s hopes began to dwindle.

 

He had been stationed in Afghanistan as an army doctor and while he saw horrors every day, he could not deny that the adrenalin gave him a rush that was all but addictive. The thought of leaving and going back to an ordinary life in London seemed unthinkable.

 

John’s dedication and skill rose him up the ranks with surprising speed and time seemed all but to blur in that desert heat. He had started working as an assistant surgeon and was very proficient in his skill. He had seen terrible injuries that had been burned into his mind, limbs gone, bodies torn apart, bone and organs exposed…he became numb to it. It was his job to save each and every life.

 

But he was not always so lucky. War was never fair. Boys…barely legal and women were killed. In the villages, children were murdered. Some nights John would lay awake in his bunk and stare up at the bed above his, clenching his jaw and holding back tears. He was terrified he would die out there but the prospect of going back to London…seemed dull. Plus, what did he have to go back to? Sherlock had never written him, he hadn’t heard from his sister Harry in years. John wondered if anyone would notice if he died.

 

He climbed the ladder, moving up along his ranks. He was able to be closer to the front lines, going into villages and taking care of the locals. But here, he also witnessed far more death and injury. Here, he watched as men and women he knew were killed in front of him and uncaring for his own life, John would rush over to these soldiers and try desperately to save them. Here, on the front lines he was able to carry a gun and as he rushed forward to save their lives, he would fire at the enemy. He was a good shot which was noticed by the current Captain of the regiment he was stationed in, James Sholto.

 

He approached John one evening as he was heading bak to his quarters. “Watson!”

 

John turned and saluted him, “Captain.”

 

“Oh, enough with the formalities.” He waved off John’s salute. “I wanted to speak with you.” Sholto lead John into his empty quarters and pulled up a chair for him. “I’ve been watching you.” John couldn’t help but blush a little. “You’re a good shot and I think you could be even better with more training. I know you’re a surgeon but I could see you leading a battalion some day.”

 

“Thank you, sir…”

 

“James.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“You can call me James.”

 

That made John blush even more and glance down at his feet. “James…I’m flattered but I’m a doctor…that’s what I went to university for.”

 

“Maybe, but I’ve seen the way you work with the assistant surgeons, you’re a natural leader John.” They were sharing shy smiles and John felt a flutter in his heart that he hadn’t in a long time. “Here’s my proposition. I’ll personally teach you, everything you need to know. We’ll meet during down time and move you up the ranks in no time.”

 

“No offence but…what do you get out of this?”

 

“I want to be a Major and I want you to be my Captain.”

 

***

 

They worked together nearly every day when they weren’t completely exhausted. John proved to be a natural with a rifle and his strength grew with every passing day. On days where the heat was too much, James would sit down with John and discuss battle strategies and how to efficiently lead their men.

 

One night they sat on James’ bed eating a few of the treats that James’ parents had sent him. They were good friends now and very comfortable around one another and they talked constantly. Not always about the war but about their childhoods or family. John loved to make James laugh because he didn’t as much as he should and when he did…his eyes would light up and his whole self would express the purist form of joy.

 

“Oh, John. You missed something…” He pointed to his own chin.

 

“Did I get it?”

 

“No…higher up.”

 

“Now?”

 

“No,” James began to laugh.

 

“Bloody hell. Now?”

 

James reached over, still laughing and ran his thumb right under John’s bottom lip. John’s eyes snapped to James, his heart began to race. They were pulled like a magnet. Their lips crashed together, fingers tangled in hair and bodies pressed against one another. It was desperate and frantic and incredibly hot.

 

John caught James’ bottom lip in his teeth and pulled gently, a groan released from James which made John chuckle lowly. Somehow, John had ended up straddling James’ lap who was laying on his back. “Christ…I’ve wanted to do that for so long…” 

 

“Me too…” James murmured, looking up into John’s eyes. “John, I want you.” He clawed at John’s shirt, running his hands under the fabric and teasing along the warm skin underneath. He could feel every defined muscle and it made him shiver.

 

John leaned down and kissed James gently, “Are you sure?”

 

“Take off your shirt.” John laughed and did as he was told.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“That’s bloody right.” James ran his hands over John’s abs and pecs, feeling every hard muscle, “You’re beautiful.” John blushed and worked on removing James’ shirt, marvelling at the other mans physique. James was much taller than John, his chest and shoulders broad with muscle, a v forming as he trailed his hand down further…

 

“Trousers off. Now.” John growled, getting off James just to pull off his own. He didn’t join James back on the bed until they were both completely bare. “Look at you…” John ran his hands down James’ hips and over his thighs, avoiding the part that ached for his touch.

“John,” James moaned, “please.”

 

John trailed his hands back up his thighs and looked at James so possessively it made him shiver. “I want to fuck you.” James nodded, already panting at the idea of John pushing him into the mattress. James may be John’s commanding officer but he couldn’t deny that he was getting off on the power play.“But first…I’m going to make you beg for it.”

 

Before James could say a word, his cock was surrounded by warm heat as John descended on him. John had never done this before, not with a man. He had envisioned it countless times, especially after meeting James. He used his knowledge of how he liked it to apply it to James and by the sounds he was making, it seemed to be working well and John couldn’t deny that the feeling of a hard cock in his mouth was-well- _mouthwatering_. He let his fingers trail down and cup the soft flesh underneath, giving a light squeeze that nearly had James howling. John pulled back with a pop, his lips obscenely wet and swollen. “Mmm, you’ve got to be quite love.”

 

“S-Sorry…God. John, don’t stop!”

 

“Shhh…” John moved up and ran his hand through James’ hair. “Do you have anything we can use as lube?” James nodded and reached over to his bedside where he picked up a jar of coconut oil. “That works.” John opened the jar and reached down to smother his aching cock in it. James watched as he did so which only turned John on even more. “Turn over for me, love.”

 

James moved on to his hands and knees, looking back at John in anticipation. John took the jar and poured some oil down the crack of James’ arse. He let out a soundless gasp, burying his face in his pillow. John started out slow, one finger at a time as he began to open James up for him. “You’re bloody gorgeous…Tell me you’re ready.”

 

James nodded into the pillow, “I’m ready.”

 

John knelt behind James, lining up his cock and very slowly, easing in the tip. James’ body clenched and John ran a soothing hand over his back. “You need to relax for me, love.” James took a few breaths and slowly started to relax, “That’s it…tell me if it’s too much.” John continued to push in, he had got nearly half way when James let out a whimper of pain which made John stop immediately. “Shit. Sorry. Am I hurting you?” He went to pull out but James clenched around him which made John groan and still.

“No…keep going. I want you to keep going.”

 

“Okay.” John took it slowly and it wasn’t until he had fully bottomed out that he started to pull out. James let out a cry and pushed his face into the pillow again. “Fucking hell.” It was slow at first but soon James’ moans of pain turned into moans of pleasure. The sound of skin against skin drove John on, moving harder and faster. He was so close, James’ arse was like a vice.

 

  
“Turn over…come on. I want you to come with me.” He helped James move on to his back and put his legs around John’s waist, John’s hand wrapping around James’ cock. This gave John a better angle and he slipped back into James, hitting a spot that he hadn’t before that made James nearly scream and had John placing his free hand over James’ mouth. He stilled, swearing to himself as he listened for any approaching steps but was met with silence. He pulled his hand up, “You need to stay quiet.”

 

“M’sorry…feels so good…”

 

“Put you hands over your mouth.” James did as he was told and John started moving again, hitting that bundle of nerves over and over again. His arse clenched tighter and tighter around John until he was sure he would burst when James let out a scream into his hands and came between their stomachs. That sent John off, pumping hard into James a few more times before collapsing on top of him. They were silent for a moment as they panted and tried to catch their breath until John chuckled and felt the vibrations or James doing the same. John looked up, resting his chin on James’ chest, both of them grinning at one another like idiots.

 

They lay together for a few moments until John got up to clean them both off as best he could. He was about to pull on his trousers when James called out to him, still laying in bed and watching John move about.

 

“Watson.”

 

“Yeah?” John looked up, a grin on his face.

 

“Come back to bed.”

 

“Yes, sir.” He crawled back in and curled up against James, resting his head on his wide chest. James fell asleep easily and John watched him for a few minutes. He really was gorgeous, dark brunet hair and blue/green eyes that he could get lost in. He closed his eyes and smiled, curling up against James and holding him close, feeling content for the first time since he had arrived in Afghanistan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we will meet up with our favourite consulting detective.  
> Thank you for reading!   
> I appreciate your comments and kudos!


	12. Dear John

**Chapter 11**

 

The numbers had all but worn off on that piece of paper John had given him on his last day in the clinic. The paper had lived in his pocket for months after their departing, the feeling of it between his fingers, a grounding for his weak moments.

 

Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock live with him so that he could keep an annoyingly close eye on him. Not that it mattered anyway because Sherlock didn’t have the motivation to do anything anymore. He practically lived in the room Mycroft provided him or on the couch when he was there alone. Mycroft tried to get him to do _something_ but Sherlock was so sure that if he left, the first thing he would go looking for, was his dealer.

 

He missed John. It was stupid and nonsensical, after all, he barely knew the man. Regardless, he had no way of contacting him and he would be damned to ask Mycroft to find out-he would never hear the end of it.

 

It began to approach months of his wallowing and Mycroft had enough. He opened the bedroom door, turned on the lights and opened the curtains. Sherlock groaned in protest and hid under his duvet. “Go away.” The blanket was pulled away and thrown to the floor, leaving him exposed to the cold of the room. He curled up on himself and tried to hide his face under a pillow, when those were pulled away as well. He sat up in a huff and glared as menacingly as he could at his brother, ready to tell him off.

 

Mycroft all but threw a pile of clothes at Sherlock and a towel. “Shower and dress. I’ve had enough of your self pity, Sherlock.” Just as Sherlock was about to protest, Mycroft turned and left the room, leaving Sherlock to stew in his own anger. Reluctantly, and with many curses to his brother, Sherlock showered and shaved before dressing. He would never admit it, but he felt human again in his fine clothes.

 

He met Mycroft in the kitchen where breakfast and tea was ready for him. He sat down, glaring, daring for Mycroft to say some snarky remark about being back with the living but he was thankfully quiet. Sherlock picked at his eggs and ate a piece of toast in silence before he couldn’t stand it any more. “Where are you taking me?”

 

Mycroft set down his newspaper and looked at his brother. “If you’re not going to go back to university, you’re going to get a job like the rest of the population.”

 

Sherlock groaned and shoved his plate away. “I’m not going to work for you, _Mycroft_.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“What?” Sherlock frowned, not expecting that answer.

 

“Surly you remember Detective Lestrade with the New Scotland Yard. He has a position for you.”

 

“A _position_? I’m not going to work for the _government,_ Mycroft.” Sherlock scoffed in repulsion.

 

“Then you are going to university.”

 

“You can’t just dictate my life! I’m an adult-“

 

“Then start acting like one Sherlock. Get a job. Get your own flat. Be financially and mentally stable.”

 

“ _GOD,_ you are insufferable!” Sherlock got up and stormed off to the front door where he grabbed his coat and scarf, pulling both on in his fury. Mycroft followed after him, his anger evident but he kept that calm facade.

 

“If you start using again, Sherlock, you will not be welcome back.”

 

“I don’t want to be here anyway!” Sherlock snapped and pulled the front door behind him with a slam. He pulled up his coat collar and made his way out into the streets of London. He didn’t have a plan, he just started walking.

 

Sherlock found himself outside of Baker Street, the flat he had lived in briefly when he had left his parents home. It clearly had other occupants now and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel possessive of it, like these new people had taken away _his_ home. Well, he had to find somewhere else now, he couldn’t stay at Mycroft’s another night, it felt like prison. He had to decide, a job or university because as reluctant as Sherlock was for either option, he had no money and his brother had frozen his trust fund. He could call his parents but knowing his brother, he probably told them not to give Sherlock anything.

 

Sherlock walked on until he found himself outside of New Scotland Yard where he paused only for a moment before throwing the doors open and walking inside to the receptionist. “Sherlock Holmes to see Detective Lestrade.”

 

***

 

Sherlock threw himself into the work-obsessively. He wouldn’t sleep for days on end as he assisted Lestrade on his cases. He was technically an “intern” in NSY’s system, thanks to Mycroft who eventually released his trust after being clean for a year. Sherlock had found a flat on Montague Street, not the nicest place but Sherlock was really only there to sleep on occasion. Mycroft gave him an “allowance” which was demeaning but it allowed Sherlock to live comfortably while working with Lestrade.

 

However, it could only last for so long. Sherlock grew tired of the bureaucracy of the NSY and the constraints of his position. After a heated row with Lestrade on a case, Sherlock quit on the spot. “I’m going to start my own profession where I don’t have to adhere to any of your, so called, standards! I’m done, Lestrade. If you want my help, you can hire me as a _Consulting Detective_ and not some errand boy for Scotland Yard!”

 

He left after that, ignoring Lestrade’s protests in defiance. Sherlock made his way back to his flat and pulled out his laptop, creating a website for his services. 

 

***

 

It didn’t take long for Lestrade to ask for his help. A new murder every night for a week straight with no obvious link. It threw him back into the work, unable to deny such a thrilling case. He took meagre ones in-between just to build up his clientele and to validate his credibility. He was nearly always working.

 

He started taking cases outside of the country. America, Germany, France, Russia, China…it all served to distract him from that small scrap of paper he still had in his wallet. During quiet moments he would find himself thinking about John Watson. If he had gone to Iraq or Afghanistan, if it was exactly what he had wanted. If he was alive…It nagged at him constantly until one weak night as he had wrapped up a case in Northern Canada, bunkering down in his hotel room as snow fell in heaps. It was dark and cold, Sherlock felt the creeping of loneliness begin to wash over him, constricting his chest and leaving him breathless. It was in these moments that he craved the cocaine more than ever. It would cure everything he was feeling and leave him careless. He wouldn’t feel lonely or have this yearning for a man that he barely knew. John Watson wouldn’t be in his thoughts.

 

But he didn’t have access to much of anything where he was and he would be damned if he trekked through the snow just to search for that relief. With a groan, he picked up his phone and texted his brother.

 

_I need a mailing address. SH_

 

_For whom? MH_

 

_John Watson. SH_

 

_If you need a doctor, Sherlock, I can provide one for you. MH_

 

Sherlock sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, his brother was relentlessly annoying.

 

_I’m calling in a favour. SH_

 

_Those are starting to add up, brother mine. MH_

 

_Never mind. SH_

 

He tossed the phone aside in exasperation, curling up in the lumpy bed and the starchy sheets as he watched the snow fall. His thoughts started to descend back into the darker recesses of his mind when his phone pinged. He picked it up, another message from Mycroft. He opened it, only to see an address for Dr. John Watson. He was in Afghanistan after all.

 

Sherlock stared at that address with the accompanying name, his heart picking up at the sight. He got up and grabbed the hotel stationary and a pen before sitting back down on the bed, legs crossed and pen poised.

 

_John,_

 

_I must apologise for not calling you._ ~~_I prefer to text._ ~~ _My brother acquired your mailing address._

 

Sherlock groaned and ripped off that sheet, crumpling it up and tossing it to the floor. He started again.

 

_John,_

 

_I wanted to thank you for your_ ~~_care_ ~~ _assistance at the clinic. I am still clean._

_I hope you are well._

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

He stared down at the paper and rolled his eyes before crumpling that one up too. Nothing he seemed to write, could convey what he actually wanted to say. He tried over and over, a steady headache growing in his temples. There were balls of paper scattered on the floor.

 

 

_John,_

 

_Afghanistan it is. I hope you are well._

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

Sherlock’s phone pinged once again. A single text from his brother. He glanced at it before turning off the lights and huddling under the starchy duvet, watching the snow fall outside the window in silence.

 

_Happy Birthday Sherlock._


	13. Two And A Half Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days. Can you believe it?

**Chapter 12**

 

Although Afghanistan was hell itself, John had never felt more in his element. It was gruelling and terrifying but there was always something _more._ Another rank to reach towards, another enemy to go after, another skill to learn. It provided John with endless tasks to complete and in his own way, that was comforting. Having come from such a broken home, plagued by alcoholism and chaos, John welcomed the steady routines and strict rules.

 

His relationship with James continued to grow as time passed. It was rare that John even thought of Sherlock and when he did, it was only in passing and didn’t make him feel much other than wonder if he was well. James became the most important person in his life and when he was promoted to Major, John felt so much pride that his chest hurt. They had made love all night after that. It was clear that their fellow soldiers were aware of their relationship but no one ever said a word to either of them. James’ significant height and muscle mass were rather intimidating to the other soldiers, especially since his rank gave him power that could make their lives hell. John relished in that.

 

Seeing James grow in the ranks, only pushed John to follow after him. He was lucky to have been through University prior to joining. It gave him a better advantage to move up and to have James’ private help on his necessary skills to be a Captain. Those lessons with James occupied a lot of his free time, and there was quite a bit of that. They weren’t at the front lines even though a part of John was itching to see what it was like. Of course, he had seen the aftermath, the horror and death that came with the risk of the front lines. He didn’t have a death wish but there was something about the risk that seemed…thrilling. He didn’t tell James this, he would probably think John was insane.

 

James was often off with other officers which left John plenty of time to get to know his fellow soldiers. He became very close with a group of lads, all very different from one another but when together, they were indestructible. John seemed to be the more serious of the bunch but his wit and sarcasm kept the group laughing.

 

Benjamin Taylor often liked to take on a leader role amongst the group but he wasn’t quite up to John’s skill level. He often looked up to John and had big aspirations to move up in rank but he was still hesitant as he had a wife back home who was pregnant. His wife wrote every week and the boys often teased him about it but it was all in good nature because they all aspired to have what he did.

 

Jason Hughes and Justin Wright were nearly inseparable. They were both the clowns of the bunch and played off of each other that would leave the group in stitches. One would think that they’re brothers by the way that they interacted.

 

Robert Green was very reserved. He didn’t speak much and primarily kept to himself and only spoke when he had something to say. The group didn’t know much about him but they still welcomed him with open arms. They all bunked together anyway.

Neil Thompson was the final member in their group. He was the youngest, only 18 and a little nervous and timid. He was rather innocent and John could see how the army was changing him. The horrors got to him more than most, especially when the injured were brought in or when they could hear bombs drop in the distance. He was prone to nightmares and constantly wrote to his parents. John felt sorry for the kid and made sure to look after him.

 

All six of them would often play card games together or tell stories of their childhoods or what they missed from back home. Of course, they had to tell stories of women they had been with, it was an easy access for them to tease John about. All in good fun of course.

 

“I swear to you, the second I get back to London I’m going to grab the first girl I see.” Jason said determinedly, making the other men laugh.

 

“I think we all feel that way.” Justin commented.

 

“Yeah, expect for Watson.” Jason smirked and all of them laughed, John blushing slightly.

 

“Hey, I mean, I don’t wanna sleep with a bloke but I’m jealous he’s getting some. It’s been ages.” Jason groaned.

 

“Not for John.” Justin laughed, playfully hitting John with his elbow.

 

“It’s been a few hours.” John smirked, getting a collective laugh and groan from the other men.

 

“Lucky bastard.” Benjamin joined in.

 

“I wasn’t exactly expecting it to happen.” John shrugged, “I’ve only ever been with women before.”

 

“Best of both worlds.” Jason teased.

 

“Honestly, I’m rubbish with women. The longest I’ve dated one has been a month.”

 

“Don’t know how you could give it up mate. I love women.” Mumbles of agreement followed.

“It wasn’t intentional. Last one when I was still in Uni, I forgot what she did for a living…” There were hollers of laughter and snide remarks on John’s behalf. 

 

They continued talking about their past relationships, John being given a hard time on his complications with women. John was in the middle of a story when a fellow soldier came by with a stack of letters. “Mail’s here.” He handed out the letters, one of course to Benjamin and Neil. John had stopped expecting any, who would write to him? He wasn’t paying attention, looking down at the playing cards in his hands, trying to determine his next move when the soldier delivering mail called his name. “Watson. You have a letter.”

 

John looked up in surprise, “What?” The soldier handed it over and John took it, frowning down at it. There was a London return address but no name. He opened it curiously and felt everything stop as he looked down at the few words in a chaotic sprawl.

 

_John,_

 

_Afghanistan it is. I hope you are well._

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John read it over and over, surprised and confused. It had been two and a half years. Two painstakingly long years and John had all but forgotten about Sherlock but the second he laid eyes on the name on the bottom of the hotel stationary, his heart nearly stopped. A rush of feelings consumed him. He didn’t hear anything around him, Jason having called his name several times before he registered it.

 

“Huh?” John looked up, dazed.

 

“You alright mate? You look sick.”

 

“Yeah…Yeah, I’m fine. Excuse me.” He got up and quickly walked back to his tent but only continued to pace when he was inside.

 

Why had Sherlock written to him after this long? Years of wondering and trying desperately to forget…now all of that was out the window. Why was he in Canada? He figured that someone as posh as Sherlock would have his own stationary, name insignia and all.

 

He had to write back.

 

John pulled out a notebook that had seen better days and dug around for a pen. He wrote _Sherlock_ and paused. What was he going to say? I’m alive? I hope you’re clean? Why are you writing me after two and half years of silence?

 

He hadn’t seen Sherlock since the last day at the clinic. He had given Sherlock his number and never heard a word from him. How did he get the address to send a letter to John anyway?

 

John couldn’t sit there and agonise over it, he was growing agitated. He grabbed his gun after stowing away the notebook and heading out to the empty patch of land where they often practiced their target shooting. There was a definite agitation coursing through him as he shot the targets, relentless and deadly accurate. That was where James found him. The sun had begun to set and John’s line of sight started to wane but he was determined to keep going. James watched him until the light had disappeared but John hadn’t stopped. He called out to him.

 

“John. That’s enough.” John purposefully shot a few more times before he set the gun down by his side and scrubbed his hands over his face. He was covered in sweat and dirt, having been laying in the sand. James came to his side and knelt beside him. “You’re upset.”

 

“Yeah. Great observation.” John brushed his hair back and stood, heading back to the camp without really acknowledging James.

 

“Are you angry with me?” James followed after him with a frown.

 

“No.” He really wasn’t. The letter that was folded up in his pocket was causing his irritation.

 

“Did something happen?” James continued, keeping a bit of a distance between them as they approached camp.

 

“No.”

 

“You’re lying, John.”

 

John clenched his jaw and turned to face James, “Look. I’m tired, I’m in desperate need of a shower and I just need some time to myself. I never get to be alone in this bloody hell hole!”

 

James frowned and stepped back from John, “That can be arranged.” He growled in anger and took off towards his own tent, offended and irritated that John was taking his frustrations out on him.

 

“James…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

 

“Goodnight, John.” He snapped and John let him walk away. He sighed and made his way back to his own tent. He felt bad for snapping at James and chalked it up to just being tired and emotionally stunted from the letter he received. He cleaned up best he could and made his way into bed, resolving to sleep it off. He tried for God knows how many hours to fall asleep but the letter was nagging at him.

 

John pulled out his notebook and wrote.

 

_Sherlock,_

 

_I was surprised to hear from you and curious how you came upon this address._

 

_But it’s nice to hear from you. I hope you’re doing well._

 

_Afghanistan is hell but I feel useful here, like I’m making a difference. I’m hopefully going to be a Captain soon._

 

_It’s nice to hear from you, Sherlock._

 

_All the best,_

 

_John Watson_

 

He sent out the letter the next morning without hesitation. Of course he panicked afterwards, questioning if it was a smart move or not. It’s not like he had any _intentions_ besides communication. He was with James and he loved him…he was sure of it.

 

***

 

That following night, John had snuck into James’ tent and crawled into his bed, making up for his attitude the night before. Needless to say, it worked.

 

It was a week later and John still hadn’t heard back from Sherlock which had produced anxiety from him every day when the mail was delivered and caused an ache of disappointment when there wasn’t any for him. It was completely irrational and he tried to ignore it.

 

John had been with his group of mates when James came up to them. “John, can I speak with you?” James kept the air of command among the other soldiers but they all knew. Jason and Justin gave catcalls and whistles teasingly as John got up and followed James to a secluded area.

 

“Sorry about that…” John murmured.

 

“John. I’ve got some good news and bad news…I wanted to tell you before anyone else did.” There was apprehension in his voice which made John frown, his heart picking up as fear began to course through him.

 

“Okay…” John breathed.

 

“The bad news is that I’m being relocated. One of the battalions in the front lines have been…well. They need a new Major and I was elected to go.” John felt sick. “The good news is, they also need a Captain. If you’re willing to join me.” John looked up at James, eyes locked to his. He took in a deep breath and nodded.

 

“Of course, I’ll come with you.” James nodded, a very slight smile on his lips, trying to keep it professional.

 

“Pack your things then. We leave tomorrow.” He nodded at John and turned, walking away. John watched him, trying to process everything. James paused and turned, quirking his lips, “Congratulations _Captain_ Watson.” He turned and continued on, leaving John to his thoughts.

 

Christ. What was he getting himself into?


	14. The Work

**Chapter 13**

 

 

 

Sherlock had been immersed in _The Work_ nearly every day. It was the only way he could keep himself focused and it served as a distraction from the temptation of narcotics. He had done so well, having been clean for two and a half years and it was only when he had nothing to do, that the cravings would return.

 

Sherlock peered out of his living room window, holding his violin under his chin, the music coming to an end. He watched as Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped out of his car and made his way into Sherlock’s building. He resumed playing, pretending as though Lestrade’s intrusion was most unwelcome. Sherlock had left his front door open slightly to allow the detective to come right in.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade stepped into the small flat, frowning at the near emptiness of it. He had a couch, a chair and a desk with a small kitchenette off to the side and another door that Lestrade assumed was the bedroom. It was so…drab. There was barely any life in this flat, heavy curtains nearly drawn closed, the stark off-white of the decrepit walls that had seen better days. The flat had to have been a few decades old…most likely it had never been renovated.

 

Sherlock turned to face Lestrade, playing the violin in his hands absentmindedly. “Lestrade.”

 

“Sherlock…I need your help.” He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, shoulders sagging.

 

“Obvious.” Sherlock murmured and tucked the violin back into its case with the upmost care.

 

“It’s…well, I don’t know exactly. There was a call about a flat on fire-“

 

“I would suggest the LFB then.”

 

“Two women were inside, only one of them survived but her story…she said that her friend caused the fire. That she set herself on fire.”

 

Sherlock paused and turned to look at Lestrade, a spark of interest in his eyes, “On purpose?”

“Well, she was under the influence of narcotics but, yeah.”

 

“So,” Sherlock sat in his chair and studied Lestrade, his fingers steepled in front of him, “a woman sets herself on fire and you have come to me for help. Something else has happened.”

 

“Yeah.” Lestrade sighed and slumped down into Sherlock’s couch. “I’m not sure if they’re related but this has happened a few times now. We’ve been seeing an escalation of homicide under the influence of a specific drug.”

 

“Again, not unheard of.”

 

“No, but it’s a new development-a new form of PCP. There have been three cases now where the drug has been taken and someone has been killed.”

 

“You want me to find the distributer.”

 

“Yeah. We’re coming up blank.”

 

“Very well.” Sherlock held his hand out for the files that Lestrade had tucked under his arm. Sherlock made no effort to move which had Lestrade having to get up and hand over them over. “Where are the bodies?”

 

“Bart’s morgue.” Sherlock strode over to the front door, grabbing his coat and scarf.“Want a ride?”

 

“No. I’ll take a cab.” The second Lestrade was out of his flat, Sherlock locked the door and quickly strode down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift, without a word to the DI.

 

Once in the cab, Sherlock looked over the files. The first was the case in which Lestrade had just been telling him about. Pictures of the incinerated flat and the woman’s body that had been destroyed by the flames. He looked over the report and then on to the next incident. A 37 year old male had administered the drug and proceeded to cut off his own genitalia and died from blood loss. The final case was a 32 year old male who had beaten and murdered his 31 year old girlfriend, having left her flat to go back home, he was covered in blood and had no recollection of the crime.

 

Sherlock had never tried PCP, nor did he want to. Although he had hallucinated while on cocaine, it left him with more of a calm, a way to be able to sort through his mind without the constant need to sort out every detail that he came into contact with. It was so much _easier_ when he could filter everything. Phencyclidine being a dissociative anaesthetic, it could leave a person without the ability to feel pain, delusions of strength, apathy, euphoria. No…that wasn’t Sherlock’s cup of tea.

 

He arrived to Bart’s and made his way to the morgue where he was rudely stopped on his way by a staff member. “Excuse me, sir? Do you have identification?”

 

Sherlock barely suppressed a sigh, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.” When there was no recognition, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m a _Consulting Detective._ ”

 

“Sir, if you don’t have identification, I can’t let you in.”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw, “I’m working on a case with Scotland Yard. Would you like me to interrupt their investigation just to appease your ridiculous rules!”

 

The woman was about to respond when a familiar voice sounded behind him, “Sherlock?” He turned swiftly, looking upon a short brunette with a lab coat on. She looked so familiar…who was she? He studied her for a moment-trying desperately to recall her from his mind palace. “Oh my God. It is you. How are you? What are you doing here?” She was all smiles and came up to him, a quick glance down to her ID that hung from the pocket of her coat revealed her name and it clicked. Molly Hooper. “I haven’t seen you since University! You look…great.” She blushed hard.

 

“Molly. You’re working at Bart’s?”

 

“Yeah! I work in the morgue actually.”

 

“Do you?” He couldn’t help but let a playful smile come to. This was his ticket in. “I was actually headed to the morgue myself.”

 

“Oh! Oh-did someone? Do you know someone that-“

 

“No. It’s for an investigation. But I’ve seemed to have forgotten my ID.”

 

“That’s okay, I’ll bring you!” She grinned and led him through the halls. “So…you’re working with the Met?”

 

“No. I’m a Consulting Detective.”

 

“A what?”

 

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes, “When the police are out of their depth, I solve their cases. It is truly an amazing feat that they solve anything at all. The DI that I work with is the only one that is not completely incompetent.”

 

Molly laughed, as if it were a joke and led them into the morgue. “What names do you have?”

 

“Phillips, Miller and Conley.”

 

Molly pulled out the first body, “This one is Phillips. He cut off his…well.” She pulled back the sheet. “He bled out pretty quickly but I’ve found the same trace of phencyclidine in each of them as well as THC.”

 

“Do you have the results from the tox screen?”

 

“Yeah.” Molly covered Phillips up again and pushed the body back in. She went over to a file cabinet and pulled out the report before handing it over.

 

“Interesting. Usually PCP is cut down for profit, mixed with other substances.”

 

“I ran the tests multiple times.”

 

“Who would be selling pure PCP?” Sherlock murmured to himself and handed the report back over. “The tox screen showed the same for Miller?”

 

“Yeah. She and her boyfriend took it together.”

 

“And Conley?”

 

“I haven’t gotten the results yet, she was just brought in actually.” Molly gestured to one of the open tables where a body laid inside of a body bag. “Do you want to see-“

 

“No. Unnecessary. Can I see your phone?” Molly frowned but handed over her mobile. Sherlock typed quickly and handed it back. “Text me when you get the report.”

“O-Okay.” She blushed and put the phone back in her pocket. Sherlock was out the door before she could say much more.

 

He knew exactly where to start-the homeless network. A few were paid, questions asked and Sherlock knew that he would find a lead soon. In the meantime, he would look into the victims lives, try and find a commonality. One way or another, Sherlock knew he would find the distributor but this case wasn’t like the others. He would have to immerse himself in that world again, one full of temptations and offers that would take every part of his being to resist.

 

He thought of John and how disappointed he would be if Sherlock decided to go back. Not that it should matter, John was off getting shot at and he hadn’t heard back from him. A cold rush of shame coursed through Sherlock as he thought about that letter he had sent. John probably didn’t even remember him, why should he? Sherlock was no one special and he only caused pain to those around him which was why he kept to himself. Alone was where he belonged. Alone protects him. As Mycroft had drilled into his head, caring is not an advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! I love hearing from you lovely readers!


	15. Shadows

 

**Chapter 14**

 

John zipped up his pack and took a look around his bunk. He was heading out with James to the front lines today and he was equal parts terrified and anxious. There was a certain thrill, risking his life and fighting head on with the enemy but he couldn’t help fear for James’ life, and perhaps a portion of his own. He picked up his pack and loaded it into the awaiting helicopter that would take them closer to the front and then they would proceed by taking a JLTV to reach their new base. There was a lot of apprehension in the air as their battalion prepared to follow in their lead.

 

James was already climbing into the helicopter and John approached with his pack, placing it securely by his seat. They gave one another nods of acknowledgment, trying to keep a professional front even though John’s stomach was forming knots. He was just climbing into the helicopter when he heard a soldier cry out his name. He stepped down and turned, frowning as one of the younger troops ran up to him. “Captain Watson! Wait!” The young man stopped in front of John, panting a bit, “Sorry, sir! A Letter just came in for you a-and I didn’t want you to miss it!”

 

John reached out and took the letter, frowning as he looked at the now familiar return address. _Sherlock._ “Thank you.” John murmured and placed it into one of his secure pockets as he saluted and stepped into the helicopter that took off soon after.James looked over at him as they lifted into the air.

 

“Are you alright?” John nodded and turned to look out at the expansive desert ahead of them.

 

***

 

The first thing that John noticed as they approached the front, was the progression of sound that assaulted his ears. Not so far off in the distance were gun shots, explosions, commands and a drone of vehicles. There was no chance he would be sleeping any time soon, he could barely hear himself think.

 

They were led to their new quarters and introduced to their fellow officers. John barely had any time to settle himself until he was called into a meeting where they received intel and plans to secure the village that they were near by. It wasn’t until night had fallen that John and James were able to eat and catch their breath.

 

“You’ve been quiet today, John.” James spoke softly, playing with the food on his plate.

 

“It’s a lot to take in.” He murmured, having already put his barely touched food aside. His fingers kept touching the letter left unopened in his pocket.

 

“Are you regretting this?”

 

“No! No.” John reached out and took James’ hand in his, kissing his knuckles lovingly. “I think I’m just tired. I’m going to try and get some sleep.” He stood up but James pulled his hand so that John came closer to him.

 

“John…whatever happens, however our time here progresses, I just want you to know that I love you.”

 

John stared down at James and suddenly cupped his face, kissing him desperately and nearly falling into his lap. James’ laughed and wrapped his arms around John’s waist as they kissed. “You love me?” John whispered, more to himself. He couldn’t believe anyone felt that way about him. Especially James.

 

“I do.” James grinned and brushed John’s hair back as he looked into his eyes. “God help me, I do.” John smacked him playfully and kissed James a few more moments before he pulled away.

 

“Goodnight, love.” John smirked and headed back to his bunk. His smile fell the second he was outside, suddenly feeling nauseous. He cared so much about James but did he love him? How do you know you’re in love? What if he told James that he loved him…what then? They live out their military careers, come back home and get married, live in the bloody suburbs and adopt a child while John works as a GP in some local surgery until they die? Or worse, John tells James he loves him and one of them dies and the other has to live the rest of their life remembering their murdered loved one? Or they both die.

 

John kneeled over in the brush and let go of the contents in his stomach. Why was it so unbearably suffocating here? He felt like his amour was choking him, crushing his chest and making it impossible to breathe. Christ, he couldn’t breathe. _Calm down John, just calm down. Focus._

 

It took him a few moments, kneeled on the ground, dragging in deep breaths to slowly bring down his heart rate. What in fucking hell was that? Assess. _Panic Attack._ His mind supplied. Brilliant. Exactly what you’d want in a Captain.

 

John got up slowly, brushing his hands off on his pants and making his way back to his bunk, grateful that no one witnessed his meltdown. He hadn’t experienced one of those since he was a teenager back home.

 

As he undressed, John remembered the letter in his pocket and pulled it out, sitting on his cot. Same London return address. He opened it carefully and pulled out the paper from within.

 

_John,_

 

_Yes, I am clean as I am sure you were wondering. I have forgone school and immersed myself in The Work for which I am now a Consulting Detective working primarily with the NSY._

 

_As for how I received your address, you may recall my brother Mycroft whom practically runs the British Government._

 

_Which reminds me, congratulations_ Captain _Watson._

 

_Confidently Yours,_

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John read the letter multiple times, his gaze pausing on the end: Yours.

 

Of course, John knew this was a common phrase to end a letter with but that word stirred something in him that he couldn’t and wouldn’t dare to examine. He tucked the letter back in his pocket and tried to get some sleep.

 

***

 

It was a normal, sweltering day like any other. James and John were to lead a group of men through a village which was said to be abandoned. They were to look for any locals that may have been stranded or injured during a recent battle. They had done this countless times over their months at the front and instead of the fear that once gripped him, John looked forward to these missions. He was always willing to put himself in harms way which had brought many rows between him and James.

 

“Do you have a death wish, John?!” He could practically hear James shouting.

 

So what if he enjoyed this? It was for a good cause. Wasn’t it?

 

They lead the men through the quiet streets, using hand signals to navigate through, checking each corner before proceeding and working their way to each home. It was eerily quiet and though it could have been from the village being abandoned, John had a feeling crawl up his spine like he was being watched. They came to the end of a street, needing to cross to the other side which would leave them exposed for a few moments. They all stood in position, checking their positions and conversing with the drone operators to confirm their safety. James gave the right away and they each began to move swiftly, just as John stepped out into the road, he saw a shadow cross from overhead and a quick firing of shots. He quickly pulled James aside, flattening them against a building out of sight.

 

“It’s a fucking ambush!” John snarled, readying his automatic rifle and pointing it with steady hands.

“We’ve detected multiple sightings, we’re sending in backup.” Came a voice over their radio.

 

“We need to get back to transport! John, lead Smithton, Michaels, Carlson and, Mayer. The rest of you will follow me!” They split up on either side of the street, moving carefully and firing back when able. It wasn’t long before they were separated, John and his men being forced to duck in through an abandoned building and carefully weave through to the other side. “John? Where are you?” James came in through his ear.

 

“We’re about half a kilometre to the east. Detour.”

 

“We’re at transport.”

 

“Go. We’ll wait for backup.”

 

“I’m not leaving you-“ There was an explosion and John flew back, landing hard on to his back. His ears rang as he laid there, disoriented, his eyes feeling heavy. There was smoke everywhere and distant echoing cries that he couldn’t seem to focus on. He tried desperately to sit up, his body aching with the effort.

 

He looked around slowly, the smoke giving very little away. Shadows crept through, holding guns at their sides and pointing them at the ground. He turned his head to the side to see that the shadow was pointing at Michaels who lay in a bloody mess on the ground. There was an echoing pop as Michaels’ body jerked and lay silently on the ground. John couldn’t take his eyes off of it, still in a haze as a shadow crept over to him, gun pointed right at his head. He reached out for his own gun, finding it nowhere near by. The shadow yelled at him but he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t _hear_ anything.

 

John tried calling out for James, hoping the radio was still in tact or that James was close and would help him. His throat felt like fire and more shadows started to close in on him. He closed his eyes, praying for the first time in his life.

 

_Please God, let me live._


End file.
